


The Accidental Renaissance of Zacharias Smith

by renaissance



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming of Age, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Ministry of Magic, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 85,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being eighteen is like being given a year to make a mess of your life, put it back together, and come out the other end a better person. Easier said than done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm actually a little nervous about posting this, which is funny. It's my first published foray into the Harry Potter since I wrote as a teenager on ff.net. Ha. But I've put a lot of time and effort into this so I'm sincerely hoping it pays off. What you're looking at is the beginning of a long pseudo-bildungsroman with a bit of plot thrown in for good measure. There will be lots of canon minor characters, lots of OCs, lots of words. And I promise I won't usually leave such verbose notes at the beginning of chapters.
> 
> Some quick acknowledgements before I begin: endless gratitude to my fabulous beta reader [Taylor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye) who, at the time of publishing, has worked her magic on the first five chapters of this fic and helped assuage many of my insecurities. Also, to [this essay](http://www.hp-lexicon.org/essays/essay-secrets-of-the-classlist.html), which I first read a good five years ago and has informed many of my headcanons about where certain characters come from. It's a tad dated now, but definitely worth a read.
> 
> Now, on with the show! Hope you enjoy C:
> 
> Edit from the future: Yes, I wrote and posted this before my username was "renaissance." I do understand how weird it is now. Thank you kindly for not pointing it out :P

Zacharias had always liked running. He’d been taller than was strictly necessary since the age of ten, and his legs were each about as useful as a float in an art gallery, and roughly the same shape. There wasn’t much to do with awkward teenage legs except run. Over the years, he had accustomed himself to running from the intercity bus stop to Glasgow Central station to make his train to London, and running from one end of King’s Cross to the other to make the Hogwarts Express, and running from the Hogwarts Express to avoid having to enter into a conversation with Ernie Macmillan. 

Running from what would probably be the most talked-about Wizarding event of his generation was not much different, he reasoned.

There was a part of him that briefly considered staying and fighting. A very small part. But he was no idiot, and he had a reasonable degree of self-knowledge, enough to know that he wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest duellist, and wouldn’t stand a chance against hordes of furious Death Eaters. Most other seventh years in the Great Hall seemed to consider the impending battle to be a matter of death or glory, but there was a third option: life. Zacharias Smith very much intended to live—and so he ran.

Perhaps he may have knocked over a couple of smaller people on the way—this could not be helped; his line of sight rendered so many smaller people practically insignificant. There was a passage through the Room of Requirement to the Hog’s Head, and Zacharias was one of the first through. As he walked, he took a moment to regret not saying goodbye to all of his hopeless Hufflepuff housemates, whom he doubted would make it through the night alive. And if they did—well, he would apologise for not saying goodbye to them when the battle was over.

The battle would be over, he knew that for certain, but he wasn’t going to place his bets on which side would win.

The Hog’s Head was a stuffy little place with all the atmospheric charm of a damp pair of socks, but Zacharias had always been fond of it. The first time he’d been there was for the meeting that led to the establishment of Dumbledore’s Army.

Of course, the DA itself had been a joke, an excuse for Harry Potter’s friends to line up and stroke his ego, and in hindsight, it would probably have been better if he’d curbed his curiosity and not joined it. Almost all of the other members hated him unconditionally, which was fun for a while, and he and Anthony had even made a game of it—Zacharias would be as contrary as possible, whereas Anthony would act borderline sycophantic, and they would see who the other members found more annoying—but naturally no-one found Anthony’s vaguely sarcastic flattery to be anything other than delightful kindness, whereas Zacharias’ scepticism very quickly became the bane of several people’s lives. It stopped being amusing when he realised that while Anthony had been acting, Zacharias had just been himself, and people couldn’t stand that.

That first meeting at the Hog’s Head, though, that had been alright, back when it was still easy to laugh off the threats of violence that his comments seemed to inspire, and being in the pub on the eve of battle came with a strange sense of nostalgia.

And that old man was still behind the bar. He looked grumpier than usual, which was no surprise, given that the pub was in the process of being crowded with screaming children, fighting each other for the few available chairs. It was going to be a long night.

“Have you got any firewhisky?” he asked the bartender, pulling a stool out from a small Slytherin’s grasp and sitting down at the bar.

“Not for minors,” the man replied gruffly.

“I’m eighteen,” Zacharias said, insulted that he might be mistaken for less. Sure, he’d only turned eighteen a few weeks ago, but he was the tallest seventh year and had in fact previously spent quite a while drinking legally in Wizarding pubs. He’d been to plenty of Muggle pubs, and even at the age of fifteen he’d just been given drinks, no questions asked. That may have been due to the unscrupulous nature of the publicans in question, but he’d heard that the Hog’s Head’s proprietor was a convicted felon, and so should reasonably not have any qualms in serving alcohol to under-age wizards.

“Not for students,” he said, scowling. “If I’m going to have the whole bloody school under my roof, I want them all sober.”

Zacharias glared at him. One shot of firewhisky would _not_ get him drunk. “I can hold my drink,” he said, turning his chin up.

“I can tell from your accent,” the bartender said, rolling his eyes. “Now piss off and find someone else to bother.”

With a sigh, Zacharias turned around on the stool and looked out into the increasing crowd. If only it were that easy. None of the people he usually bothered—the ones usually assumed to be his “friends”—were in the Hog’s Head. They were all fighting, of course. Even Terry and Hannah, who could hardly hold their wands the right way up in a duel. Fighting.

Dying.

Zacharias got the impression that by the morning, he would have very few people left to bother.

“Smith. I heard the old man refusing you firewhisky. Tough luck.”

He turned his head slightly to face Tracey Davis, one of the three people he considered as friends, given that they seemed not to be bothered by his presence at all.

“Davis,” he replied by way of greeting.

“We’ve got a corner table,” she said. “One of the few advantages of being friends with Millicent is that she’s tall and pushy. Helps with the firsties.”

“I’d rather not join you,” Zacharaias said. “Not with the promise of Millicent’s delightful company.”

“We also have firewhisky,” Tracey added. “One of the few advantages of being friends with Daphne Greengrass.”

“Alright, you’ve got my vote,” he said, following Tracey as she pushed her way through a pack of sobbing children. The three Slytherin girls had a table in the dingiest possible corner of the pub, and they were clustered around a stack of shot glasses and a small glass bottle of the most expensive-looking firewhisky Zacharias had ever seen. As well as that, Millicent had her fingers clasped around a slender bottle of elderflower wine.

“Parkinson not with you?” he asked, sitting down.

“Of course not,” Daphne said, flicking a bit of cobweb off her sleeve. “She’s off in some bathroom or other, probably, crying over Draco dearest.”

“That girl needs to get a hobby,” Millicent grunted.

“Anyway, what are you doing here?” Daphne asked him. “Shouldn’t you be off fighting with your little self-righteous gang?”

“Don’t lump me in with that lot,” Zacharias said, helping himself to a shot glass and some firewhisky.

“You are part of _that lot_ , though, aren’t you?” Tracey said. “Potter’s little illegal gang.”

“We all do stupid things when we’re young,” he said pointedly, swishing his shot glass from side to side. He hoped that Tracey would remember that time she got it off with a Durmstrang boy after the Yule Ball, only to have him dump her a week later and leave her in tears for months. But then again, she might have pushed the thought so far back in her mind that she wouldn’t realise what he was referring to as his specific example of a stupid thing.

She took a sip of her firewhisky. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Hah,” Daphne said, “don’t you remember Yordan?”

“Changing the subject,” Tracey said quickly. “When are we going to get out of here? I’m sick of all this bloody noise already.”

“Better be soon,” Millicent said. “I don’t want to be around when Potter dies. It’s going to get noisy.” The other two nodded.

“You lot are leaving?” Zacharias asked.

Daphne laughed. “Oh, Zacharias. Do you really expect us to stick around? If the Dark Lord wins, Potter dies and everyone is in hysterics, as Milly mentioned. If the Dark Lord loses, we’re going to be singled out, given that we’re all friends with Death Eaters. Either way, we lose.”

“We’re legging it to Paris,” Tracey explained. “A few hours on a train and a couple of weeks on the continent while everything boils over. There’s no point in sticking around.”

“So—you’re Apparating?” Zacharias asked. He’d never learnt to Apparate. He’d been too young for the lessons in his sixth year, and the lessons were cancelled in his seventh.

“I’d take you side-along,” Daphne said, “but I don’t want to touch you.”

“And I don’t want you in Paris,” Millicent added.

“Trust me,” Zacharias said, “the feeling is mutual.”

Tracey nudged him. “Plus, he’s gotta stick around to see if Anthony makes it through the night.”

“Tracey—”

She shrugged. “I’m just saying, someone has to look out for him, since he spends most of his time fussing over other people.”

Zacharias sighed. Anthony _did_ worry too much about everything, with the notable exception of his own sanity, but Zacharias wasn’t too keen on always being painted as some sort of emotional babysitter. To be fair, it was mostly Tracey who engaged in this heinous character assassination, but that didn’t make it any better.

To say that he had “history” with Anthony and Tracey was an understatement. The three of them had caught the Hogwarts Express together, before they had any preconceptions of house prejudices, and even of what Hogwarts would be like. None of them had siblings to tell them what to expect, and they had found each other by complete chance. They had been sorted into different houses, and Anthony and Tracey had both _fit in_. Anthony had easily become friendly with Terry and Michael, and Tracey had slotted right into the pureblood girl gang, despite being half-blood and raised as a Muggle. Zacharias was never close to anyone in Hufflepuff except Megan, but she had other friends besides him, and for all it was worth she’d been missing in action for the past year.

Zacharias spent a lot of time thinking that he would have done much better if he’d been sorted into Ravenclaw or Slytherin, but he didn’t have the same eagerness to learn and study as Anthony did, or Tracey’s shameless ambition—he really was one of “the rest”.

“I’ll look after him,” Zacharias said begrudgingly. “If he survives.”

“He will,” Tracey said.

She seemed so sure, and if anything that just made Zacharias more uncertain.

“Sorry to interrupt this little outpouring of emotion,” Daphne said, “but we should head off. Zacharias—keep the firewhisky. We can buy better in Paris.” She stood up, and Millicent followed suit, taking with her the elderflower wine and the remaining shot glasses.

“Take care of yourself, Zach,” Tracey muttered, pushing her chair away from the table.

The pub seemed much noisier without the three Slytherins for company. Zacharias had never much cared for Tracey’s friends, but they were better than nothing. He pocketed the firewhisky and shot glass in his robe and got to his feet, scanning the room for a familiar face. Maybe Parkinson would have worked her way out of the bathroom by now. She was a last resort, but he could hold conversation with her if he had to.

He made his way to the bar, where he was accosted by a tall redhead who he recognised as one of the Weasley brothers, the one who had been Head Boy at some stage. “Am I too late?” he asked.

“Too late for what?” Zacharias said, raising an eyebrow.

“The battle!” he said hysterically. “That is to say—Aberforth informed me that they were going to make a fight of it. Is that—?”

“Yeah, there’s a fight,” Zacharias said, cutting him off. “Bit hard to tell if it’s started from down here.”

Weasley paused. “No need to take that tone of voice with me, young man. Are you a Prefect?”

Zacharias shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I want to speak to a Prefect,” Weasley replied, while Zacharias searched for the man’s name at the back of his mind. “I need to speak to someone who has authority. Where is Aberforth?”

“You mean the bartender?” Zacharias glanced over his shoulder, only to see the bar deserted. “It’s fine, you can speak to me. I’m a Prefect.” The lie came easily, and Weasley took it as fact, with a cursory nod.

“Well then,” he said, “if you could show me to the passage to Hogwarts…”

“Of course,” Zacharias said. He shoved a weeping boy aside and led the Weasley brother up the stairs to the portrait hole.

“Shouldn’t you be taking care of the younger students?” he asked. “Making sure they’re feeling well? That boy there looked very sad; when you go back down, make sure you cheer him up. When I was Head Boy—”

“Well, here’s the passageway,” Zacharias interrupted. “Happy travels.”

Weasley gave him a stern look. “Look after them,” he said. “It is a Prefect’s duty.” He climbed into the portrait hole and began the walk to Hogwarts. When he was out of earshot, Zacharias laughed.

“Prefect’s duty,” he muttered. “Good thing I’m not a—”

“There he is! That’s the one who said he was a Prefect!”

Zacharias’ eyes widened. It was the boy who had been crying when he’d walked past with Weasley, and not only had he followed Zacharias up the stairs, he had also brought his friends. His eyes were dry, but one of the girls with him looked close to tears.

“My name’s Wallace,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Can you help my friend Erin? Her big brother is in the battle, and she’s scared.”

“I’m not really—”

“Please!” the boy said. “We’re _all_ really scared.”

“Okay,” Zacharias said, sighing, “why don’t we go downstairs and I’ll get you some butterbeer.”

Aberforth was still nowhere to be seen, so it was easy enough for Zacharias to climb onto the bar and swing his legs over, and he poured Erin and her friends, who all wore the Gryffindor colours, each a mug of butterbeer.

“You’re in Hufflepuff, aren’t you?” Erin asked, wiping her eyes.

Zacharias looked down at his tie. “I suppose I am.”

“Do you know my brother Wayne?”

“Wayne Hopkins? I’ve only had to share a room with him for the last seven bloody years.”

Erin laughed. “Yeah, he’s really annoying. But I’m still worried that—” She broke down crying again, and another girl patted her on the back.

“Wayne’s shite at duelling,” he said. “He’ll probably break his arm five minutes into the battle and spend the rest of the night cowering behind a tapestry.”

“That’s not the sort of thing you should be saying!” Wallace said, looking scandalised.

Erin stopped sobbing. “It’s fine,” she said. “Prefects ought to be honest. When I’m a Prefect next year, I’ll be the most honest Prefect possible.”

“ _If_ you’re a Prefect next year,” the girl with her hand on Erin’s back said. “Let’s face it, _I’m_ the one out of us who’s most likely to make it.”

Erin turned to Zacharias and shook her head. “Between you and me, Xenia’s all talk.”

“I am not!” Xenia said, pulling her hand back and crossing her arms.

“Well, there’s no use fighting over it,” Zacharias said, “since in the end it’ll be your Head of House who chooses.”

“I’m McGonagall’s favourite,” Xenia said, “since I’m top of Transfiguration.”

“This is a boring subject,” Wallace declared. “You—Prefect; what’s your name?”

“Zacharias,” he said, not making the effort to lie about his name as well as his Prefect status.

“Ah,” Erin said, smiling as though she’d just worked out a particularly tricky Arithmancy problem, “I thought it was _Ernie_.”

“Well, you should tell us a story, Zacharias,” Wallace said, ignoring Erin. “To pass the time.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Why don’t you find someone else to pester?”

“Oh, tell us about the Yule Ball!” Xenia said. “We were all in first year then, so we couldn’t go. But Erin told us about her brother going, and we were all so jealous.”

“I didn’t go,” Zacharias lied, avoiding the topic.

In fact, despite planning not to, he had very much gone to the Yule Ball. Although Anthony refused to take a date, since he had no need for “petty teenage romance”, he still wanted someone to keep him company while Michael ditched Mandy to flirt with other people’s dates and Terry gazed longingly into Lisa Turpin’s eyes, despite her telling him numerous times that even though they were on a date she was never actually going to go out with him. They’d started off talking to Tracey and her Durmstrang date Yordan, but those two had gone off to do the inevitable, and so they eventually found themselves in the company of Susan, Megan and Su.

Susan had gone with Justin and Megan with Wayne, but the boys had been called away to provide moral support to Ernie, who had been left close to tears by Hannah, who had allegedly told him that she wouldn’t kiss him because she was waiting until marriage. And Su had been valiantly dateless, because everyone knew about her crush on Susan (except Susan), and even though Kevin Entwhistle had asked her at least ten times, she had resisted, and he’d ended up with a third year. The three girls had stationed themselves on the side of the room and were making fun of the many poor fashion choices present that evening, and they were only too happy to have Zacharias and Anthony join them, on the condition that they were as rude as possible about Ron Weasley’s dress robes. This was not hard.

But Zacharias wasn’t going to tell these fourth year kids any of that. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he added for good measure.

“Well, that was a boring story,” Erin said, glaring at Xenia. “Oh, I’ve got one, though—why don’t you tell us about the weirdest injury you’ve ever had?”

“I tend to stay out of trouble,” Zacharias said, fully preparing to tell another boring story, when he remembered that these kids were Gryffindors. “But there was one—a Quidditch injury, in fact.”

“That’s exciting,” Erin said. “Was it a bludger?”

“No,” he said, frowning, “it was Ginny Weasley. I was commentating on a match and she _disagreed_ with some of my comments about her sainted Quidditch team, so when the match ended she flew into the commentator’s tower and knocked the rickety old thing to a pile of rubble on the ground, with me in the middle of it all. I broke my leg and got one hell of a concussion, and I spent the next few days delirious in the Hospital Wing.”

“Wow,” Erin said, “that’s pretty bad.”

“To be fair,” Wallace said, “I remember that match, and some of the things you said about our team were not very nice at all.”

Ah, there was the response he was looking for. But it seemed that not everyone agreed with Wallace. When Zacharias looked up he saw that a small crowd had gathered around him and the Gryffindors.

“Whatever he said, no-one deserves a concussion for just being a bit rude,” a boy said to Wallace, and Zacharias was surprised to see a Gryffindor tie around his neck.

“Did your friends at least visit you in the Hospital Wing?” a small, dark-haired Ravenclaw girl asked, looking genuinely worried. “When I fell down the stairs from my dorm to the common room and broke my arm, my friends made me a card and came and sat with me after class. My brother even snuck out to Honeydukes to buy me acid pops.”

“Your brother probably shouldn’t have done that,” Xenia said primly.

“It’s okay,” the girl said, “one of his best friends is a Prefect so he didn’t get caught.”

“Oh,” Zacharias said, remembering something that had happened in sixth year—Anthony had been talking about using his Prefect powers for all the wrong reasons to let Michael sneak out to Hogsmeade and buy something for his injured sister. “You’re Michael Corner’s sister.”

“I am!” she said, narrowing her eyes. “How do you know that?”

“I’m a Prefect,” Zacharias said, “so obviously I’m friends with the Prefect who let him out that afternoon.”

By now, there were even more younger students pressed up around the bar, and Zacharias was quite thankful for that barrier between them. “Tell us another story,” Erin said. “Tell us about your first kiss!”

A few of the girls giggled. “I bet she had to stand on her toes, he’s so tall,” Xenia whispered to Erin.

“Another very boring story,” he said, “since I’ve never kissed anyone.”

He had come very close, with Megan once forcing herself upon him for a hug after they won a Quidditch match, and in the crowd they had been pushed up against each other so that their mouths almost touched. Megan had brushed her teeth afterwards even though Zacharias insisted that he wouldn’t have done anything even if their lips _had_ come into contact, but she wasn’t taking any risks with the possibility of contamination.

“ _So_ boring,” Erin said.

“Have you even been on a date?” Michael’s sister asked, and when Zacharias shook his head she hooted with laughter. “Even _I’ve_ been on a date, and I’m fourteen!”

“Given how many dates your brother’s been on, I’m not surprised,” he said. She didn’t seem to take offence, and kept laughing.

The evening wore on well into the morning, and some students slept with their heads on each other’s shoulders, while others were buzzing with energy and were kept awake by anxiety. Zacharias found himself entertaining a constantly-changing crowd with stories, although Erin, Xenia, Wallace, and Michael’s sister Anna stayed with him the whole time. At Anna’s prompting, they pressed him for stories about Dumbledore’s Army, and about Harry Potter, but somehow they weren’t disappointed when he told them that he was never particularly friendly with Harry, and that he still sometimes wore his POTTER STINKS badge on weekends. Erin and Xenia were pushing for romantic stories, so he ended up narrating the saga of Terry and Lisa, and how they had just been getting somewhere when Lisa, a Muggleborn, had gone into hiding. He told them about Su and Justin both fancying Susan, and about Tracey’s Durmstrang dalliance, and any other “petty teenage romances” he could call to mind, which were a great hit with everyone—even Wallace got involved in guessing what had happened next.

It occurred to him that this was what that Weasley brother had meant when he told Zacharias to look after the younger students. He was taking their minds off the battle being fought, and it probably should have made him feel good, to be doing something decent for other people, but instead with every story he grew more and more impatient, willing the fighting to end soon, so he could find out what had happened, who had won, who had died. For Anna and Erin’s sakes, he even hoped he’d walk back into Hogwarts to see Michael and Wayne alive and well, and just as annoying as ever.

So when Aberforth flung open the door to the Hog’s Head and proclaimed that the war was won and Voldemort was dead, Zacharias got to his feet, and he ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take some time to leave a comment and let me know your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was always annoyed that we never got a proper aftermath for the Battle of Hogwarts, so I wrote this chapter. Also, I suppose this is a good time to mention that my teenagers swear significantly more than JKR's teenagers. Such fun.
> 
> Once again many thanks to Taylor, who helped me get my McGonagall tone perfect in this chapter and gave it a most thorough beta reading indeed!

Hogwarts was so loud. It was not what Zacharias had been expecting. The Entrance Hall was buzzing with the muffled noise from the Great Hall, and he felt a bit strange knowing that there were people celebrating on the other side of the doors ahead of him.

Erin and Anna and a few other younger students had run after him. Zacharias felt uncomfortable leading a group, but they followed him almost dutifully as he went towards the Great Hall. He stood for a moment, before putting a hesitant hand out to the doors.

“Just open it!” Erin said, shoving him in the back. He stumbled forwards and pushed the door open, and Anna and Erin rushed around him and into the Hall.

The dining tables stood in place and were crowded with students and former students alike, rejoicing no doubt at defending their school from the forces of evil and defeating Lord Voldemort. Somehow, there was food, and if it weren’t for the bits of rubble lying around the edges of the Hall and all the unfamiliar faces at the tables, it could have been just another evening meal at Hogwarts.

Students came rushing in, from behind him and all around him. Zacharias was almost too overwhelmed to move, but Anna grabbed his arm and dragged him from the crowds.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to find Michael. If I know him, he’ll be healing the injured.”

Somehow Zacharias didn’t quite buy that one. “Only if they’re pretty, I suppose,” he joked.

“Fuck you,” Anna snapped, turning around suddenly. She was only a third year, and a short one at that—the words sounded odd coming out of her mouth. Then again, Zacharias had said worse at that age. “I know he’s a flirt, okay? I know he likes pretty girls, but he also wants to be a Mediwizard, and he would want the practical experience. So we’re going to the Hospital Wing, alright?”

“Alright,” Zacharias said, raising his hands in apology. The anger left Anna’s face. She smiled sadly at him.

As it turned out, they didn’t need to go as far as the Hospital Wing, because Madam Pomfrey had set up a makeshift hospital in a classroom just off the Great Hall. Just as Anna had predicted, Michael was there, following the nurse around and helping her administer potions. He almost dropped a bottle of Skele-Gro when he saw his sister.

While they held each other in a tight hug, Zacharias scanned the room for faces he knew. Wayne was lying on one of the tables scratching at his right arm, and Zacharias made a mental note to tell Erin when he next saw her, although he was sure she’d find out somehow. He saw Terry too, and Susan, both of them lying down, recovering from whatever had happened to them. It wasn’t Zacharias’s place to pry. And Parvati was weeping next to Lavender, who appeared to have been gored by some sort of wild animal. It was an ugly sight, and Zacharias made to leave, but Michael stopped him.

“Thanks for looking after my sister, dickhead,” he said.

“I just did what I could,” Zacharias replied with a shrug.

Michael nodded. “Go on then, piss off. Anthony’s in the next room down, but, uh… you might not want to go in there.”

“It’s fine,” Zacharias said. “I need to see how he is.”

Michael’s expression softened, and he turned to Madam Pomfrey. “I’m going with Smith for a minute,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

“Don’t be long!” she said, not taking her eyes off her patient.

Anna followed the two of them out the door and down the corridor to a room with a closed door, but Michael held up a hand to stop her from entering. “Go back to the Great Hall,” he said.

“Why?” Anna asked. “I want to see Anthony too!”

“No, you don’t,” Michael said bluntly, and Zacharias felt weirdly faint all of a sudden. He hadn’t noticed any bodies, but he supposed they had to be keeping them somewhere—surely not Anthony, though? He bit his lower lip to keep from saying anything stupid.

Michael looked at him and rolled his eyes. “It’s alright, he’s alive. But most in that room are not.” He turned back to Anna as Zacharias pulled himself together, embarrassed at himself for assuming the worst.

“Go on, Anna,” Michael said. “Go and celebrate.”

Anna shook her head. “I’ll wait outside.”

Michael just sighed and pointed to the other side of the corridor. “Wait over there.”

He turned the handle on the door and slipped inside, signalling for Zacharias to follow him. They entered a large classroom; on each desk lay a body. The room was airless, and the smell was stifling.

Anthony stood beside Professor McGonagall. He turned as they entered, and Zacharias had to stop himself from reacting to his appearance. He was pale white, as though all the blood had drained out of his skin, and his eyes were red and bloodshot, presumably from crying. His glasses sat askew, tilted by a scar forming on his nose, and he held a long ream of parchment in one hand and a quill in the other.

“Have you seen Tracey?” Anthony asked. “She’s unaccounted for.” He glanced down at his parchment. “Millicent Bullstrode, Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass; seventh year, Slytherins: all missing.”

“They left before the battle,” Zacharias said. “Apparated away from the Hog’s Head.”

“The Hog’s Head,” he echoed, looking back down at the parchment and scribbling a few words. “So that’s where you were.”

Michael coughed. “Uh, I’m sensing that the Zacharias Is A Coward conversation is about to kick off, so… I’m going to head back next door.”

Professor McGonagall turned around and looked Zacharias up and down. She was shorter than him, but he always felt absolutely petrified in her presence. Thankfully, she quickly turned her attention to Michael as he left the room.

“I’ve always liked that about Ravenclaws,” she said. “They always know when there’s more work to be done.”

“We’ve identified all the bodies,” Anthony explained. “Well, all the bodies that have been found. There are a lot of families who need to be informed, and then we’ll need to transport them, and—”

“That’s a task for another day,” Professor McGonagall said calmly. “You’ve been a great help, but perhaps you should get some rest.”

Anthony shook his head. “With all due respect, Professor, I couldn’t if I tried.”

“Very well,” she said with a small smile. “Then I will give you a brief leave to discuss with Mr. Smith why he spent the battle in the Hog’s Head.”

Zacharias could barely believe that he had essentially just heard a teacher tell a student to yell at their friend, but stranger things had happened in the last few hours. When they stepped into the corridor, Zacharias noticed that Anna had left.

“Go on then,” he said. “Have at me.”

“I’m not angry at you, Zach,” Anthony said, “but you should have told me you wouldn’t be fighting.” He held forward the parchment. “Zacharias Smith, seventh year, Hufflepuff: missing.”

“Is that—”

“Everyone aged sixteen and over who should be present in this castle, including the former students, Aurors, and Order members who arrived to join the battle. Hannah has a list of the younger students—she’s in the Great Hall ticking off names, and then she’ll go down to the Hog’s Head, I presume. But I suppose you want to know who died, don’t you?”

There was no emotion in Anthony’s voice, and that made Zacharias strangely uncomfortable.

“Seventh years: Mandy Brocklehurst, Ravenclaw. Stephen Cornfoot, Ravenclaw. Vincent Crabbe, Slytherin. Kevin Entwhistle, Ravenclaw. Morag McDougal, Ravenclaw. Sophie Roper, Gryffindor. Sixth years—”

“Wait,” Zacharias said, “that’s it? No Hufflepuffs?”

“Yes, Zacharias, _that’s it_ , six dead and four of them from Ravenclaw. Did you particularly _want_ your housemates to be dead?”

“I didn’t—”

“No, of course, you didn’t mean it that way,” Anthony said quickly. “You always have been insensitive; I don’t know what I expected.”

“I’ll leave,” Zacharias said. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be here, anyway. You’re busy.”

“Stay,” Anthony said, reaching forward and grabbing Zacharias’ hand, the quill he’d been holding slipping between their fingers. “You’re better company than McGonagall, anyway,” he added, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smile.

“Yeah,” Zacharias said, “I can stay. You probably shouldn’t keep working for much longer, though. How long have you been awake?”

“How long have _you_ been awake?” Anthony shot back, his hesitant smile becoming a grin. “Did you get a good night’s sleep in the Hog’s Head, you coward?”

“Oh, yes, slept like a fucking baby,” Zacharias said. “You know, with all those screaming children packed in there.”

“I was joking,” Anthony said. “You’ve got bags under your eyes the size of—well, they’re more like suitcases, really.”

“And you look like you’ve been making out with a Dementor.”

Anthony laughed, and Zacharias squeezed his hand. The quill between them snapped in two.

“Ah,” Anthony said, “I’d better go back in. I have to finish this list.” He pulled his hand away and inspected the broken quill with such a morose expression that he might have been cataloguing another dead classmate.

He opened the door to the classroom and McGonagall appeared, taking the parchment from him. “Our work here is done, I’m afraid,” she said.

“But I still—”

“You’ve done remarkably well this morning,” she said to Anthony, “and I will enlist your help again in the coming weeks. Now I have a school to run, and I’ll need to make an address sooner rather than later. We must leave the dead to rest. Go, enjoy the feast.”

“Oh,” Anthony said. “Oh, uh, we broke your quill. Sorry about that.”

“Both of you broke it?” McGonagall said, masking an amused smile. “I have other quills, Goldstein.”

“Of course,” he said, “of course. Sorry. We’ll, uh, go to the feast.”

Instead, Anthony insisted on going to the makeshift hospital room and checking on Terry. Zacharias stood back while they talked; Terry had a bandage wrapped around one eye, and he looked to be in a fair bit of pain. Erin had arrived in the hospital room and sat talking to her brother, and Anna had somehow been allowed to supervise the administration of potions along with Michael. Zacharias didn’t want to interfere. Then again, he didn’t want to leave Anthony either. He could feel himself turning into the overbearingly solicitous friend that Tracey seemed so convinced he was, but there was a limp in Anthony’s step and there was still no colour in his face, and Zacharias was hardly going to let him overwork himself in that state.

Erin waved him over. “Zacharias, help me get Wayne up! We’re going to find his friends. He’s well enough—”

“Clearly not well enough to stand on his own, though,” Zacharias said. He helped Wayne climb off the desk and onto his feet, where he stood remarkably steady. His right arm had been placed in a sling since Zacharias had last seen him, but otherwise he looked unharmed.

“You’re gonna have to help me walk,” Wayne said. “I was hit by, what, ten successive jelly-legs jinxes?”

“Right,” Zacharias said. Holding onto Wayne’s arm, he turned his head around to where Anthony sat with Terry and now Michael. Anthony caught his eye and smiled. Zacharias nodded, and helped Wayne out of the hospital room.

“I think my sister’s got a crush on you,” Wayne said, scowling. “Can’t stop talking about how great you are, how nice you were in the Hog’s Head. Told her she might have a bit of competition.”

“Competition?” Zacharias shook his head. “All she has to compete with is my unwavering sense of dignity in that I would never even consider being interested in a fifteen-year-old.”

Wayne looked a bit amused by that, but he didn’t say anything. They reached the Great Hall soon enough, despite Wayne’s jelly-legs affliction, and straight away Hannah noticed them, rushing up from the Gryffindor table. Zacharias wondered if she’d finished ticking off the names on her list.

“Wayne! Zach! Just in time for dessert! Come on, come join us.”

“Why are you at the Gryffindor table?” Wayne asked, wrinkling his nose.

“I know, it feels so wrong. But that’s just where we were standing when Harry killed You-Know-Who!”

Wayne shrugged, and Hannah took his arm, helping him to the table. Erin had already sat down next to Ernie and was eagerly telling him how Zacharias had “impersonated” him in the Hog’s Head. It was strange to see them sitting there, knowing that Megan and Justin were still in hiding, and that Susan was lying in the hospital room, but the housemates he had thought would be dead for sure were _alive_.

Erin gestured for Zacharias to come and sit next to her, sliding over to make room. He took the seat, ignoring Ernie—who was getting indignant about Zacharias pretending to be a Prefect—and reached forward for a slice of the cake that sat on the table before them.

“Don’t. Don’t even touch that cake. You don’t _deserve_ to eat it.”

“Alright,” Zacharias said, pulling his hand away and looking up to see Ginny Weasley standing over him. “What is it that I’ve done to not deserve breakfast?”

“You’re a traitor,” Ginny said. “You were a member of Dumbledore’s Army! Where were you when we were fighting?”

“Not dying,” Zacharias said. There had been times when he would have been more than happy to argue with Ginny, who somehow hated him a lot more than he hated her—which was already a lot—but he had been awake for over a day and could not be bothered to engage with her.

“My _brother_ died,” Ginny hissed, “but you were in the Hog’s Head, weren’t you? You kept yourself safe, you coward!”

“Oops, that’s my secret out,” he said. “I’m a coward. Now let’s all move on with our lives.”

“No!” she shouted. “You’re old enough to have stayed and fought, but you didn’t! You would have been just as happy for everyone to die. You don’t even deserve to be in the castle!”

Zacharias sighed. Perhaps this argument was unavoidable. He stood up, giving himself the advantage of height. “I guess we’re going to do this properly,” he said. “You can scream at me some more, if you want.”

“You don’t get it,” Ginny said. “I’m not surprised everyone hates you. Why don’t you just leave now?”

“I’m not going anywhere, you little shit,” Zacharias snapped. “Can’t you just get over it? My actions can’t hurt you.”

Ginny punched him in the face.

Zacharias was shocked—Ginny was so much shorter than him, and she’d had to jump a bit; but mostly, he was shocked because despite her height she had managed to land her fist right in his nose. He staggered backwards and collapsed onto the floor, easing himself down to a sitting position with his hand. He brought his other hand up to his nose and felt blood run down his fingers. “Fuck! You fucking broke my nose!”

“My actions can’t hurt you,” Ginny mocked.

“Enough!” Zacharias looked around to see that Erin had stood up. She was even shorter than Ginny, but there was fury in her eyes. “So maybe Zacharias ran away from battle. But you know what else he did? He stayed up all night talking to me and my friends, and to people we didn’t even know. He kept us entertained while everyone else was fighting. We were so scared, but he was there to make us feel better. Who did _you_ make feel better today?”

Ginny glared at Erin. “Are you making this up?”

“I’m not!” Erin insisted. “Ask anyone who was in the Hog’s Head. They’ll all tell you.”

“Fuck this for a laugh,” Zacharias mumbled, pulling himself to his feet. People were staring, and he wasn’t exactly charmed by the attention. “I’m going to get this bloody mess cleaned up and then come back for some cake.”

“I’ll come help!” Erin said, bouncing on her heels.

“Don’t get involved,” he warned as Ginny stormed off. He had the feeling that this wouldn’t be the last he heard from her, though.

Despite his protestations, not only did Erin follow him to the hospital room, but so did Ernie. Apparently Ernie still wasn’t over the Prefect thing.

“I can’t _believe_ you convinced so many students that you were a Prefect! Surely they could tell immediately from your attitude?”

“It was more like five students,” Zacharias said, his voice somewhat dulled by the fact that he was still holding his nose.

“But _why_ did you tell them you were a Prefect? What could you possibly gain from it?”

Zacharias ignored him as they entered the hospital room. It had emptied out considerably, and now Susan and Terry were both sitting up, talking to Anthony, Michael, and Anna. Madam Pomfrey and the other patients were nowhere to be seen.

“Trust you, Smith,” Michael said, “to get yourself hurt _after_ the war’s over.”

“Ginny punched him,” Erin explained. “Called him a coward and socked him right in the nose!”

“Serves him right for pretending to be a Prefect,” Ernie muttered.

Michael scoffed. “Ginny’s insane, she is. Sit down, pick a table.”

“You used to go out with her,” Terry reminded him, and Michael made a face like he’d just eaten an earwax-flavoured jellybean.

“Big mistake,” he said.

“Really?” Terry said. “Because at the time—”

“Merlin, Zacharias!” Michael said loudly, cutting Terry off. “She’s only gone and broken your nose!”

“I had noticed,” Zacharias said.

“Move your hand,” Michael instructed, grabbing Zacharias’ arm and wrenching it from his face before he had a chance to do it himself. “ _Episkey_.”

His face burnt as his nose realigned, and then went very cold before settling back to normal. There was still blood everywhere, but at least he didn’t have a broken nose.

“Can’t do anything about the bruise, though,” Michael said.

Anthony moved to sit next to Zacharias on the table. “Now we’ve got matching injuries,” he said, gesturing to the cut that had split his nose.

“How did that even happen?” Michael asked. “I don’t remember you getting punched in the face by Ginny Weasley.”

“Very funny,” Anthony said. “It was when I fell down the stairs.”

“When did you fall down the stairs?” Terry asked. “Blimey, I don’t remember that at all!”

“Must have been after you got knocked out,” Michael said, “because I remember it quite clearly. One of those ugly Death Eaters shot at us, and I rolled behind a statue, but Anthony… man, you should have seen it!”

“Here we go,” Anthony said quietly.

“He stepped backwards to get out of the way,” Michael began, “and then did some sort of mid-air pirouette over a stone that was jutting out in the floor and landed on his arse at the top of the staircase. Then he rolled right down to the bottom screaming that I should tell his wife he loved her, or something.”

Terry and Susan laughed, but Anthony sighed and pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “Actually, I told for you to watch out for the Death Eater on your right,” he said.

“Either way, it was the best trip down the stairs I’ve ever seen,” Michael said. “The Death Eaters thought you were dead and moved off.”

“Speaking of moving off,” Anthony said, “Terry, Susan, are you feeling well enough to come to the Great Hall? McGonagall mentioned that she was going to give some sort of speech. I hope she hasn’t already—”

“She hasn’t,” Ernie said, as Terry and Susan both indicated their assent. “Well, not since we were there.”

“Oh, hello, Ernie,” Michael said. “Didn’t notice you there.”

Ernie puffed out his chest indignantly, which was no doubt the desired effect, and stood to his full height. He opened his mouth to speak, but Michael cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Never mind. Now that you’re here, you can help Susan to the Hall.”

Their small crowd trooped back down the corridor slowly, given that most of them had been injured in the battle. Zacharias supposed he ought to be slightly more ashamed of his lack of injury, although he supposed he could pass off the blood covering his nose and hand as a battle scar, so that no more Ginny Weasleys would bother him.

The celebrations in the Great Hall had become somewhat subdued—a few younger students had fallen asleep at the tables—but Wayne and Hannah remained at the end of the Gryffindor table chatting amiably with a few students that Zacharias didn’t recognise. He found a place between Anthony and Erin and sat down just as the new Headmistress appeared at the staff table.

“Good timing,” Terry whispered as the Hall sputtered to silence.

“Good morning,” McGonagall began. There was some laughter in response. “It has been a long night, and frankly I find it remarkable that so many of you remain awake. In the past few hours, a great evil has been vanquished from the world. Harry Potter has defeated Lord Voldemort.”

At that, the occupants of the Hall cheered almost uniformly, applauding and screeching. “Yawn,” Zacharias mumbled, and Anthony elbowed him in the ribs.

“Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Harry all morning,” Michael said.

When the noise had died down, McGonagall resumed her address. “For many of those who fought last night, this night was their last. They shall be remembered at a memorial service to be held tomorrow morning, as well as in our hearts. But for those of us who remain, life must go on. Those of you who wish to stay at Hogwarts in the coming weeks will be welcome. Regular classes and examinations will be replaced with the great task of returning the castle to a state of order after the wreckage wrought by the battle. And if all goes well, schooling shall resume as normal on the first of September.”

McGonagall paused, almost as though she had anticipated the excited chatter that would follow. Everyone who had fallen asleep seemed to have been woken by their friends, and they were now eagerly discussing the prospect of continuing the school year without classes and exams.

“No N.E.W.T.s!” Hannah exclaimed. “This is all of my Christmases come at once!”

“It’s a blow to our academic progress,” Ernie complained. “We’ll _never_ get jobs without taking the N.E.W.T.s!”

Anthony smiled like he knew something more. “You spoke to her about this,” Zacharias said to him, “didn’t you?”

“As it turns out, there are _some_ benefits to volunteering to help the Headmistress identify the dead.”

“I am sure many of you are worried about your O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s,” McGonagall continued. “Due to the many disruptions to your studies this last year, you will all have the option to either repeat your current year of classes or go ahead to the next year. It is advisable for current fifth and seventh years to repeat classes, as fifth years will not be able to progress without their O.W.L.s, and seventh years might prefer to graduate with N.E.W.T.-level qualifications. As for the rest of you, whether you decide to progress with your education or repeat a year of classes will make no difference. You will all remain in the same dormitories where you currently reside.”

A lot of the younger students seemed very pleased by this, and a few even applauded. McGonagall paused to let them finish.

“Now,” she said, “I would advise you all to make up for any sleep you missed last night. The clean-up will begin tomorrow morning. For now, you may sleep wherever you wish; I, for one, am quite beyond caring.” She smiled and stepped down from the podium at the centre of the staff table. The noise in the Great Hall began again, with students blearily rising to their feet and shuffling towards their dormitories, or perhaps classrooms, and some apparently resolving to sleep right where they were at the dining tables.

“I’m going to the Hospital Wing,” Michael said. “See if Pomfrey needs a break.”

“I’ll come,” Anthony said. “I’m not going to be able to get to sleep; might as well make myself useful.”

“Well, I’m knackered,” Wayne said. “I can think of nothing more pleasant than my own bed.”

Zacharias nodded, and decided to give up on supervising Anthony for the day. What Tracey didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. He followed Wayne, Ernie, Hannah and Susan to the Hufflepuff common room. He had never been so glad to see it in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please take the time to leave a review and let me know what you think C:


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no excuse for not updating sooner because I have actually written six and a bit chapters of this already... anyway, I freaked out when I saw that it's almost a month since I posted the last chapter. So here's chapter three! I guess this chapter is just starting to introduce a few more friendships, and stuff that will work its way throughout the story.
> 
> Once again, huge thanks to Taylor for her beta-reading!

When he had naively assumed that cleaning up Hogwarts would be as simple as a few spells in the right place, Zacharias had been quite ridiculously wrong. The castle itself was so vast that it took a week just to restore the first floor to normal, and that was taking into account the whole student body—well, those who had some Wizarding blood in them and hadn’t been in hiding for the last year—helping with the effort.

Anthony and Hannah had been conspicuously absent, and it was a few days before Zacharias caught on that they had not, in fact, been skipping class to snog, but were the newly-appointed Head Boy and Head Girl. It was almost a relief. After he had been stupid enough to broach the subject, Wayne teased him endlessly about it, despite Zacharias telling him that he didn’t even fancy Hannah. Ernie, on the other hand, was still not over Hannah, and started to get a bit too territorial around Anthony, at which point Zacharias had to apologise for letting the situation get out of hand.

When Zacharias casually mentioned his suspicions about the pair of them, Anthony had laughed so hard that he’d choked on a steamed carrot. Zacharias realised then that his assumption had been downright _wrong_ , and he would have to play it off as a joke. Thankfully, Terry had suggested that perhaps dinner was not the best time to be making jokes, and Michael had said that the whole situation could have been avoided if Zacharias had just sat at the Hufflepuff table, and the conversation had moved on.

Hannah and Zacharias were working together on clearing the rubble away from a classroom on the second floor when she brought it up.

“I heard you told everyone I’ve been snogging Anthony,” she said. It was out of the blue, but Zacharias kept his features neutral. He would not overreact.

“Wayne,” he corrected. “I made a _joke_ to Wayne.”

“You know how Wayne is,” Hannah said.

“Anyway,” Zacharias said, “that was before I knew you were Head Girl.”

“I told everyone at breakfast the morning after I found out,” Hannah said, frowning. “Zach, I have it on a _badge_.”

“Well, I didn’t notice,” he snapped, hoping she’d drop the subject.

She didn’t.

“You should sit with us sometimes,” she said.

If Zacharias didn’t know better, he might have thought she sounded sad about the fact that he had all but defected to Ravenclaw. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his housemates—well, he didn’t like Ernie, but he had his doubts that _anyone_ liked Ernie—but that he needed the variety. He spent his nights pretending to pay attention to the chatter in the Hufflepuff common room, so during the day he stuck with the Ravenclaws, even though Terry and Michael made no secret of the fact that they didn’t much care for him.

“Padma’s sitting at the Gryffindor table,” he said, as if that was any sort of excuse for him taking her place.

“Padma’s sleeping in the Gryffindor dorms, too,” Hannah said. “She doesn’t have anyone else.”

“Okay, now I’m the arsehole,” Zacharias said, trying not to laugh. “You know, for bringing her into this.”

Hannah shook her head, smiling. “You’re always the arsehole. I’m not trying to force you to do anything you don’t want to, and I understand about you and Anthony. I’m just saying… you’ve been a bit distant, you know? More than usual.”

Zacharias frowned. “I don’t want to intrude—”

“Intrude on what?” Hannah sighed. “We’re all grieving in our own way. But that doesn’t mean we can’t coexist.”

Hannah had always been reasonable when it came to things like this. She never did very well on essays and exams, and she worked herself into a state about her grades, but when it came to sorting out other people’s problems, she knew exactly what she was doing. Zacharias had never been on the receiving end of one of her pep talks. It was strangely unsettling.

“I suppose so,” he said with a nod. He wondered if this meant that he would now be expected to take his meals at the Hufflepuff table.

She was right, though, about people grieving in their own ways. The memorial service had shown that well enough. Padma and Terry had wept openly, while Hannah, teary-eyed, had taken several younger students into her arms and comforted them. Ernie had tried to keep his cool, but Zacharias had heard him crying once they’d all pretended to go to sleep that night. Anthony had, of course, not shown any overt emotion, but his pursed lips and clenched knuckles said it all. Although, he did manage to crack a smile when Ginny sought Zacharias out after the service and kicked him in the shin for looking bored.

He _had_ been bored, but it was more fun to tell her that he couldn’t help the face he was born with and then walk off, pretending that his leg wasn’t about to collapse underneath him.

“Look after yourself,” Hannah said. “That’s all.”

It struck Zacharias that perhaps she thought he was sad. Most people were sad—death seemed to have that effect on them. But Zacharias hadn’t lost anyone, wasn’t mourning, didn’t have anything to move on from. Maybe she thought he felt guilty about not fighting.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said.

“If you say so.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I should head off. Anthony and I have got some _serious_ snogging to do.”

She managed to keep a straight face for all of five seconds before bursting into laughter.

“Brilliant,” Zacharias said. “This is going to become a thing, isn’t it?”

“You can’t just assume people are not going to make jokes about this for the rest of your life,” Hannah said. “I do have to go and do Head Girl things, though. I’ll see you at dinner?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Over the next couple of days, Zacharias forced himself to sit at the Hufflepuff table. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared about not hurting Hannah’s feelings, but it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. He got away with saying very little—with the exception of the occasional opinionated interjection—and he was there to be the calm one when an owl arrived from Justin to say that he was alive and well and would be returning to Hogwarts in September.

Eventually, more owls came. Megan—who wrote to Zacharias—had travelled to Italy and spent the year working in various restaurants, and Su had been staying with family in China and studying at a local Wizarding school. There was still no word from Lisa. People started speculating that she had been one of those who had willingly registered as a Muggleborn at the Ministry and was summarily sent to Azkaban. Those wizards and witches were being released, but from what Ernie heard from his uncle in the Ministry, there was a lot of paperwork to be worked through. The Hogwarts first years, Muggleborns who had been snatched straight from their families to Azkaban, had it the worst; there were rumours that their memories would be erased to spare them the trauma. All in all, it was a mess, and Ernie declared that everyone should be glad to hear from even a few friends.

The news of Muggleborns starting to resurface set everyone talking about whether or not they would repeat the school year. On an afternoon off, Zacharias somewhat unwillingly joined a gathering of seventh years—Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Hermione Granger—on the grass outside discussing their futures.

“I’ll be repeating the year, of course,” Ernie said, eager as always to have the first word. “It can’t be helped.”

“Well, you’re doing it for your N.E.W.T.s, aren’t you?” Wayne asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m repeating because we missed a year with half our friends. We have to make up that time.”

“I heard Padma and Parvati are leaving without their N.E.W.T.s,” Susan said.

Hermione sighed. “Parvati had told me as much. It’s a pity; they’re both such bright witches.”

“Then they’ll be bright in whichever path they choose to take!” Hannah said. “I’ve been thinking; are the N.E.W.T.s really that necessary?”

“Well, it’s bloody hard to get a job without them,” Michael said, “but you can try.”

“I think I’m going to try,” Hannah said, her face drawn with resolve.

“Hannah!” Ernie wailed, clutching his tie. “You can’t just give up on your education!”

“I’m rubbish at exams,” she said. “I’d get a better job without having to share the sorts of grades I get.”

“As much as I enjoy your company,” Anthony said, “I don’t think you should pursue the N.E.W.T.s if you don’t want to.”

“Any particular _reason_ you enjoy her company?” Michael asked under his breath. It didn’t seem like anyone heard, because Anthony kept talking. “Have you heard about anyone else?” he asked.

“Megan wrote to me again,” Zacharias said. It wasn’t like him to speak in a group like this—it was so much easier to stay quiet until someone addressed him directly—but since Anthony asked, he felt slightly less ridiculous offering his knowledge. “She’s back in Wales. Got herself a job with the Harpies.”

“I heard their headquarters were ransacked by Death Eaters,” Terry said.

“Does that mean she won’t be coming back next year?” Hannah asked. “That would leave just Susan in the dorm!”

Susan shrugged. “What if I don’t come back next year?”

“You wouldn’t,” Ernie said, growing more flustered by the second.

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said, laughing. “Don’t worry.”

Ernie slumped forward, sighing. “Good. I don’t want people thinking that Hufflepuffs aren’t academic enough to get their N.E.W.T.s.”

“Mate,” Michael said emphatically—he didn’t finish his sentence, though. Terry and Anthony had begun giggling, and Michael joined in with such zeal that a bird flew off the tree they were seated under at the sound of his cackle.

“Once again, Hufflepuff is the punchline,” Wayne said with a sigh.

“Well, I’m coming back,” Zacharias said, trying to think of a snappy joke with Ravenclaw as the punchline and coming up short. “Taking my N.E.W.T.s and all that.”

“So never let it be said that Hufflepuffs don’t take their studies seriously,” Ernie said primly.

“What about your boyfriend, Hermione?” Susan asked, quickly changing the subject.

Hermione turned a spectacular shade of pink and glared at Susan. “ _Ron_ will not be returning to Hogwarts.”

“Why not?” Michael asked. “Surely if you’re staying, he’d—”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” Hermione said, “but I suppose you’ll all find out eventually. Ron, Harry and Neville have been asked to work for the Ministry. They need help finding the last of the Death Eaters, and who better than those three?”

“What about you?” Hannah said. “Who’s better than you?”

“I was offered,” Hermione said, looking slightly heartened by Hannah’s words, “but I declined. I feel it’s more important to pursue my education.”

Ernie nodded. “Well said.”

“I hesitate to ask,” Hermione said, “but have any of you heard from any Slytherins who might return? I don’t want them all staying away because they think there’ll be some sort of stigma around their presence.”

Tracey would be back from Paris soon—Zacharias wondered if she’d return. He wouldn’t mind if she did. She was easy to keep as a friend, and Zacharias almost missed her. He’d probably have missed her more if the constant presence of other people wasn’t starting to wear on him.

“You say that like any of us actually talk to Slytherins,” Michael said. Anthony shot him a dirty look.

“Well, we’re all just curious,” Hannah said carefully.

“I think everyone just wants to know what’s going to happen next,” Hermione added. “The end of the war is by no means the end of uncertainty.”

Evidently, Zacharias was the only one present who thought in no uncertain terms about the future. Susan had taken to staying up late and making lists of what still had to be done before everything was back to normal. Wayne owled his parents every night to see if they had any news that might not have reached Hogwarts. Even Megan, in her letters, had expressed concern that her job doing grunt work for the Holyhead Harpies might turn out to be less of a long-term engagement than she had expected, and she’d be left with no money and no N.E.W.T.s.

Zacharias knew exactly where he was headed. He would spend the next few weeks watching everyone worry themselves to early graves, go home, spend a few torturously slow months ignoring his father, maybe spend an afternoon with his mother at some point, return to Hogwarts, spend the year studying and generally neglecting friendships, take the N.E.W.T.s, get an average mark, get an average job and spend the rest of his life making enough money for firewhisky dinners every second night.

He wasn’t exactly in a position to be ambitious. It was easy enough to tune out the speculation around him.

That night at dinner an owl arrived bearing a letter from his father. Dr. Smith rarely wrote to his son, and Zacharias replied even more rarely. Dr. Smith’s words were, as always, terse and to the point. If there was one thing Zacharias admired about his father, it was his skill to say as much as possible in so few words.

 

_Zacharias,_

_Your mother called. You’d think a second marriage would be unprofitable at her age, but apparently not. Naturally she refuses to send a message to your “Wiccan cult boarding school” and so it falls to my beleaguered self to pass on the news. Do try to find a telephone and tell her you can go to the wedding. If nothing else, it will get you out of the house for a few days in August._

_Dr. H. Smith_

 

Hannah leaned across the table to get a look. “What’s it say?”

“Not even a ‘ _glad to hear you survived the Battle, son_ ,’” Zacharias said, mocking his father’s intonation.

“You didn’t even _fight_ in the Battle,” Ernie said, his nostrils flaring.

“That’s beside the point,” Zacharias said. “I could have been killed and he doesn’t even mention it.”

“Then why did he bloody write to you?” Wayne asked.

Zacharias folded the letter and slid it into the pocket of his robes. “My mother is remarrying.”

“Merlin,” Wayne said. “I didn’t even know your parents were split.”

“Neither did I,” Hannah said. “So when is the wedding? Do you get to take a date?”

“Will you need new dress robes?” Susan asked. “Weddings are pretty formal, and if I remember correctly, your dress robes were flung into the Whomping Willow two years ago.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Zacharias said, glaring at Susan. “Michael did _not_ tell me that he would be using them to test a catapult-based automatic dressing system for his Charms project.”

“Missed the mannequin by a mile,” Wayne said as though it was a fond memory for him.

“Why did he say he wanted your dress robes, then?” Hannah asked. “It’s a bit weird, don’t you think?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter, because even if I were to go the wedding, I wouldn’t wear dress robes. My mother is a Muggle.”

“Unbelievable!” Ernie said, banging his fist onto the table and sending a small potato on his plate flying a few inches into the air. “You told me on our first day at Hogwarts, straight after the welcome feast, as we walked through the common room to our dormitory, that you were a _pureblood_!”

“Half-pureblood,” Zacharias corrected. “Not that it matters.”

“How do you even remember that?” Wayne asked, tentatively patting Ernie’s shoulder. Ernie’s cheeks had ballooned with his annoyance and he bore a striking resemblance to the potato he had just displaced.

“I always assumed you were a pureblood too,” Hannah said.

“What else haven’t you been telling us?” Susan laughed. “Got any dark secrets you’d like to share?”

“Not particularly,” Zacharias said.

“Well, I’m declaring a free-for-all,” she said. “And this goes for all of you. Anything you’ve been keeping to yourselves for the last seven years comes out tonight. We’ll find a corner in the common room and share our confessions.”

Ernie snorted. “What makes you think that any of us have been keeping secrets from one another?”

“Because this lot weren’t around for your breakdown at the Yule Ball,” Wayne said. Ernie’s face shifted through scandalised and disgusted before settling on disapproval.

“Megan and Justin are going to hate us for doing this without them,” Hannah said. “Maybe we should keep a record of everything that’s said.”

“No,” Wayne said hastily. “No, definitely no.”

“It’s ok,” Susan said. “I’ve got a terrific memory.”

Zacharias decided that he would go. He would go just to see what everyone else felt compelled to hide and give nothing away himself. After dinner he joined the other seventh year Hufflepuffs in the common room, well away from all the other students, and sat cross-legged between Susan and Wayne.

“So how are we going to do this?” Wayne asked. “Take it in turns?”

“Thanks for volunteering to start,” Susan said. “We’ll go anti-clockwise.”

Wayne rolled his eyes. “Right.” He paused, biting his lip in thought. “So in third year, Susie, when our Shrinking Solution bubbled over and went all over everything, and Snape gave us a detention and docked ten points? I, er… I may have forgotten to skin the shrivelfig. My fault entirely.”

“Oh,” Susan said, looking confused, “I had forgotten about that. Uh, no hard feelings.” She turned to Ernie. “Maybe you’ve got something a bit more interesting?”

“Hardly,” Ernie scoffed. “I’m not in the habit of keeping secrets.”

“Hey,” Wayne said, “don’t you remember the first DA meeting?”

Ernie stuck his chin out and scowled at Wayne. “The first meeting this year, you mean.”

Wayne hadn’t been in the original Dumbledore’s Army, but he had joined when Neville began running it during their seventh year. In many ways, he had taken Zacharias’ place. Zacharias had been to a few meetings here and there, but eventually he’d just stopped going—he had a couple of very good reasons, none of which had pleased Anthony. At first, they had argued about it, and hadn’t spoken to each other for quite a long time after that.

“Go on, Ernie,” Zacharias said. “I wasn’t there, so you have to tell me what happened.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything, you lying—”

“Ernie!” Hannah chided. “We are _all_ sharing secrets tonight. Tell us what happened.”

Ernie glanced at Hannah and sighed. “I wanted to work with you, but you insisted on partnering Luna. So afterwards, I caught up to her and told her that she couldn’t work with you anymore because…”

Hannah narrowed her eyes. “Because _what_?”

“He told her that he was your boyfriend,” Wayne said. He slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter.

“Fuck, Ernie,” Zacharias said, “that’s pathetic. Even for you.”

“What is that suppose to mean?” Ernie snapped.

“I can’t believe this,” Hannah said, her head buried in her palms. “I have _never_ been so embarrassed in my life!”

“You could embarrass yourself further with a confession of your own,” Susan suggested. “It is your turn, after all.”

Hannah pulled her head up and glowered at Susan. “ _Fine_. If we’re doing this…”

“This is going to be good,” Wayne said. The look on Hannah’s face was so intensely focused that Zacharias couldn’t help but privately agree.

“That incident at the Yule Ball,” Hannah said. “I told Ernie I didn’t want to kiss him because I had a date with Michael the next Hogsmeade weekend.”

There was silence in the circle as Hannah let the full impact of her words settle.

“So you _weren’t_ waiting until marriage!” Ernie said.

“Hold on, we went to Hogsmeade together that time,” Susan said. “With Megan and Su. I remember distinctly.”

“He blew me off for Ginny,” Hannah said with a shrug. “It’s alright—I don’t think he’s really my type.” She smiled sweetly. “Your turn, Susie.”

Susan had clearly been saving something up this entire time, given that the whole confession circle thing had been her idea, but she pretended to take a moment, as though she had to think about what to say. “So I guess you lot are under the impression that I don’t know why Justin and Su are barely on speaking terms.”

“Pretty sure you don’t know why,” Wayne said with a cocky grin.

“So you think I don’t know that they both fancy me,” Susan said flatly.

“Oh no,” Hannah said, frowning. “Who told you about that?”

“No-one… ?” Susan raised an eyebrow. “It’s rather obvious.” She sighed when they gave her sceptical looks. “Okay, Justin told me. He was very concerned that his dislike of Su would come off as racism.”

“That’s a very Justin thing to think,” Hannah conceded.

“Well, romantic intrigues aside,” Ernie cut in, “it’s Zacharias’ turn.”

“Hooray,” Zacharias muttered, shifting so that he was sitting straighter. This felt too much like his story-telling in the Hog’s Head, where he had been grilled on all aspects of his personal life. There was very little that he kept secret, and as such, very little to share in a situation like this.

“Go on then,” Wayne said. “We haven’t got all night.”

“I once stole a quill,” Zacharias said, shrugging. “It was Parkinson’s. I think.”

“You stole a quill from Pansy Parkinson,” Wayne said. “That is literally the most boring confession I have ever heard.”

“Even more boring than Wayne’s confession about the Shrinking Solution,” Susan added.

“I’m quite a boring person,” Zacharias said. “What were you expecting?”

“You don’t tell anyone anything about yourself,” Hannah pointed out. “I mean, we only just found out that your mother is a Muggle. What about the rest of your family? You’ve never told us any of your grades, or what your best subject is, or even where you live!”

“Right,” Zacharias said. “Er, generally I get Es or As, I’m decent at Arithmancy, and I live in Ayr.”

“You’re only good at Arithmancy because Anthony helps you with the homework,” Ernie said, as though Zacharias was personally to blame for his Arithmancy marks being notoriously low. Ernie had only taken it in the first place to prove that Hufflepuffs didn’t only study the soft options, but he wasn’t exactly the poster boy for academic rigour.

“It may surprise you to learn that I do indeed spend some time studying in between Quidditch and my startlingly busy social life,” Zacharias said. The fact that it was Anthony’s fault that he’d signed up for Arithmancy—and that he had taken the occasional copied answer as recompense for the inconvenience—was entirely irrelevant to the discussion. “I got an O in the Arithmancy O.W.L.”

“Bullshit,” Wayne said. “Everyone knows that only Ravenclaws get Os in Arithmancy.”

“Well, he had a Ravenclaw helping him,” Susan said. “Anyway, this is ridiculous; I gave you something interesting, Hannah and Ernie gave us gossip, but you two,”—she gestured to Wayne and Zacharias—“are the most mundane people I have ever met. Come on, don’t you have anything interesting to share?”

“I kissed Megan,” Wayne blurted out. “I mean, it was ages ago, when she was made Quidditch Captain, and we saw each other in Cardiff over the summer break and I don’t know, I guess I just kissed her, and—yeah.”

“Wayne, are you _blushing_?” Susan teased. “Don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone.”

Zacharias, in fact, had already known, because Megan had told him in great detail during one Quidditch practice how Wayne’s lips had been wet and how he’d tried to shove his tongue into her mouth but their teeth had collided, and how it was generally uncomfortable for everyone involved.

“It must be awkward that she hasn’t written to you yet,” he said.

“What, and I should be jealous because she’s written to you?” Wayne laughed. “Jealous of someone with a _boyfriend_?”

“A _what_?” Zacharias turned his head towards Wayne and narrowed his eyes.

“Anthony?” Wayne prompted incredulously.

Zacharias shook his head, pursing his lips. “I think you have very much taken hold of the wrong end of the stick.”

“Well, _this_ is awkward,” Susan said. “I assumed—”

“Well, you were wrong,” Zacharias said, hoping that he could succinctly shut down this conversation.

“But he was your date to the Yule Ball!” Hannah said.

“Wasn’t a date,” Zacharias said tartly.

“We all assumed that was why you were so riled about the Hannah and Anthony thing,” Wayne added.

“I wasn’t riled,” Zacharias began, getting a bit impatient. “I was just—”

“Don’t worry,” Susan said, holding her hands out in conciliation. “Nothing leaves the circle, remember?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day; please do let me know if you're enjoying the fic! C:


	4. Chapter 4

The end of the year couldn’t have come any faster, but that didn’t stop Zacharias from willing the passage of time to miraculously speed up. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to spending the next months with his father, or having to waste at least fifteen minutes on the phone with his mother to tell her that under no circumstances would he be attending her wedding. The alternative, however, was spending time with his housemates, and ever since the Hufflepuff Confession Night, he had scarcely been able to look his them in the eye. The fact that they had agreed not to talk about any of it somehow only made it worse—the affair had continued late into the night and there were several things said that Zacharias wished he had never heard at all.

Not to mention the fact that Susan seemed to have taken it upon herself to rectify the fact that Zacharias did not have a boyfriend. Specifically, Anthony.

Of all the friends Zacharias had ever had, not _one_ had ever seen fit to force him into some parody of matchmaking like the novels Tracey read, but Susan was determined that “Anthony should not be left wanting.”

Sitting at the Hufflepuff table at every meal wasn’t such a bad option anymore.

The Hogwarts Express, however, was unavoidable, and naturally the few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws who had just finished their seventh year ended up in the same compartment. Even Padma joined them, leaving Parvati and Lavender for the first time since the Battle.

Anthony stopped Zacharias just outside the compartment, grabbing his arm before he could enter.

“I have to patrol. Can we talk quickly?”

“About what?” Zacharias asked. He hoped Susan hadn’t done anything reckless.

“You’ve been avoiding me for a while,” Anthony said, shrugged. “Remember what happened last time we weren’t on speaking terms? I just want to, uh…”

“That’s alright,” Zacharias said. He was oddly nervous, despite speaking to someone he had known for the past seven years. Stupid bloody Susan.

“Alright,” Anthony echoed. He let go of Zacharias’ arm and shrugged. “Are you… are you coping? I mean, no-one is really the same after all that, but you’re—”

“Acting a bit different?” Zacharias said. “Sorry to cut you off, but I’ve already had the talk from Hannah. I’m _fine_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anthony said, “I get it. Just promise me you won’t stagnate when you get home. Write to me.”

“I’ll send you an owl once a day detailing every meal and every conversation.”

“Throw in a description of what you’re wearing and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Zacharias relaxed. There was nothing odd about this—all of Susan’s talk had been getting to him, but there was nothing new between him and Anthony. They were still just friends, just as they had always been, and there was no difference—even though Zacharias now knew that everyone thought they had been at it since fourth year.

He smiled. “Deal.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Anthony said, returning the smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got very important Head Boy duties to attend to.”

“Good luck with that,” Zacharias said, slipping into the compartment as Anthony started down the train’s corridor.

Padma sat by the window staring vacantly at the scenery, but the others were already chatting amongst themselves. No-one stopped to acknowledge him when Zacharias pushed his suitcase into the overhead storage and sat down next to Susan. It was quite comforting to know that his presence wasn’t that interesting to anyone.

Susan nudged him.  “Was that Anthony?”

“Yeah. He’s patrolling.”

“So’s Hannah,” she said. “Aren’t you—”

“Shut up, Susan.”

“Duly noted.”

Wayne leant over Susan. “We’re talking about our holiday plans,” he told Zacharias. “Are you doing anything? Apart from the wedding?”

“Hold on,” Michael said, “who’s getting married?”

“My mother,” Zacharias said snippily. “And I’m _not_ going to the wedding.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “You’re a terrible son. Anyway, as I was saying, I thought we could all meet up at some point. Manchester’s a nice middle-point for everyone, isn’t it?”

“I’m almost _certain_ you’re only saying that because you live there,” Ernie said. “However, I’m sure I could find my way easily enough.”

“Not too hard to get to Manchester,” Terry agreed.

“So we’re all okay with that?” Michael asked. “Padma?”

“I probably won’t join you,” she said. “If that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Michael said quickly. “I’ll invite some more girls to even out the numbers. I’ll get onto Hannah and Su, and Megan… and Cho will come, of course.”

Terry shook his head. “I can’t believe she’s still going out with you.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Wayne said. “Like—”

“Like Ginny,” Michael finished. “Don’t remind me.”

The conversation shifted to other things, and Zacharias drifted out of focus. He wondered about Tracey—she would be back in Britain, probably, but he hadn’t heard from her. He’d have to owl her eventually; make sure she hadn’t fallen into the Seine, or worse, into the arms of some dashing French boy—she would never shut up about that sort of thing. Still, he would ask her for the details anyway. He would have to write to Megan too. Apart from anything else, she’d want to know that everyone now knew about Wayne kissing her. And he’d be writing to Anthony, of course.

It would be a long holiday without them.

The train arrived at King’s Cross with a muted sense of closure. Hannah had long since returned from her patrolling and was in tears at having left Hogwarts for good. They clustered together on the platform, Hannah clinging onto Susan and Wayne, and Ernie standing aside awkwardly, presumably wishing that he were both Susan and Wayne.

Zacharias stood a bit away from them, browsing his train timetable. There wouldn’t be a train to Glasgow for another hour, if the clocks were right, so he had some time to kill.

He didn’t notice Michael walk up beside him.

“About Manchester. You’re not invited.”

Zacharias turned to face him and shrugged. “I wouldn’t have come anyway.”

Michael looked like he hadn’t been expecting that response. He folded his arms. “Look, just because Anthony likes you, doesn’t mean the rest of us want you around. You ruin the mood with your moping and brooding.”

Those last words gave Zacharias a strange sort of feeling, building up like tension in his shoulders. Michael had never been his biggest fan, but a few weeks ago, even just before on the Hogwarts Express, Michael had been perfectly cordial to him. Something had happened, and Zacharias tried to think back to what he might have said or done to bring this on. He scowled and clenched his jaw. He was not going to play on Michael’s level.

“Next time I’ll try to be cheerier,” he said evenly. “And given that you’ve had seven years to get used to my _moping and brooding_ , maybe you shouldn’t let it worry you so much.”

“You don’t get it,” Michael snapped. “It’s not about that, it’s—”

He was cut off by Terry slapping an arm around his shoulder, Anthony not far behind. “What’s going on here, then?” Terry said.

“Just having a little chat with Smith,” Michael said, his countenance returning to normal.

“Yes, and now I ought to be leaving,” Zacharias said, stuffing the timetable in his pocket. “I’ve got a train to catch.”

Without warning, Anthony pulled him into a hug. Zacharias’ eyes shot wide open and his arms hung limply ahead of him.

“It’s been a long year,” Anthony said quietly. “So, thanks for… for a couple of things.”

Zacharias let his arms settle around Anthony’s back. “Don’t,” he whispered, trying to sound like he wasn’t on the verge of displaying some sort of emotional response to the situation.

“I won’t,” Anthony said, breaking the hug and lightly pushing Zacharias away. “Piss off and catch your train.”

“I’ll write to you,” Zacharias said, glancing at Terry and Michael, who looked respectively amused and annoyed.

It was only when he was on the platform where his train would arrive that he realised he was still smiling.

The sky was dark by the time his bus finally pulled into the terminus. Zacharias had stopped smiling, but his good mood had endured despite numerous hitches on the trip—an obnoxious passenger next to him on the train who insisted on taking up as much space as possible, a delay at Carlisle, and nearly missing the last bus to Ayr. Nothing had dented the surprising amount of cheer with which he dragged his suitcase down the streets to his house.

Zacharias contemplated how odd his mood was as he opened the door—then his father spoke and he remembered why he wasn’t usually like this.

“I’d expected you earlier.”

The house was dark but for a light from the sitting room. Although the door from the corridor sat ajar, Dr. Smith was out of view. Zacharias put his suitcase down to give his arms a reprieve and sighed. “The train was delayed.”

Dr. Smith turned the page of a newspaper. “Unconscionable. I would suggest that you write them a strongly-worded letter of complaint.”

“I might as well storm the headquarters while I’m at it,” Zacharias said.

“Careful,” his father said, a mocking warning. “I’m not sure that’d be appreciated in the current political climate.”

“Maybe I’ll just stick to the letter,” Zacharias said, lifting his suitcase back up and turning to the staircase.

“Don’t forget to call your mother tomorrow morning,” his father called out.

Zacharias pulled a face and started up the stairs. His bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. It wasn’t a particularly exciting view—just a few hedges and a birdbath—but at least it avoided the sounds of the street. He put his suitcase down by the foot of his bed and stood staring at it.

Unpacking could wait until the morning.

The morning came without much fanfare. Zacharias extracted himself from his bed at eleven and found his way to the kitchen somehow. It was so easy at Hogwarts—the Hufflepuff dorms were right next to the kitchen, and after a few years most Hufflepuffs could do the trip while blindfolded. Here, there were stairs to avoid tripping down, and a fridge that was more often than not understocked.

Thankfully there was half a takeaway curry sitting on the top shelf, and Zacharias peeled off the clingfilm and watched absently as the bowl spun around in the microwave.

He ate in front of the telly, putting off the inevitable by pretending to be involved in whatever was showing. The phone was on a table in the corner of the sitting room, taunting him from the edge of his vision. After an hour of mindless drama the news came on, and Zacharias put the plastic takeaway bowl in the bin and decided to get it over with.

He dialled his mother’s work number.

“Lorraine Wortham speaking, how may I help you?”

Zacharias cleared his throat and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Good afternoon, mother.”

The line buzzed with static. “Zacharias.”

“Mother.”

“I presume you received my invitation, then,” she said swiftly.

“Yes, immature comments about my education and all,” Zacharias said, rolling his eyes. “I called to tell you I won’t make it to the wedding.”

“I would _love_ to hear your excuse,” she said.

“Pity,” he said. “I’ll keep you guessing.”

He could almost hear his mother grinding her teeth on the other end of the line. “What’s a _pity_ is that you and your father are so alike. But Zacharias, despite whatever _else_ you might be, you are also my son, and it would only be proper for you to attend my wedding.”

“At the risk of being improper—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “I posted a formal invitation to your address; your father will no doubt remember the details, although I fully expect the invitation itself to be long since discarded. Nonetheless, I want you to be in London by the middle of August, and your attendance to be guaranteed.”

There was a pause, and just when Zacharias thought his mother was about to hang up, she spoke again.

“Don’t disappoint me, Zacharias.”

“No promises,” he said.

She hung up.

Zacharias put the phone down and bit back a laugh. He’d never been on the best terms with his mother, and he honestly hadn’t expected her to be so vehement about his attendance at the wedding. He was the weird one, after all. She only invited him to Christmas lunches out of a begrudging obligation, and hadn’t minded the year he’d told her he was skipping lunch for a school dance.

He looked back at the clock. It was only half-twelve, but he already felt exhausted from having dealt with his mother. There were things he had to do with the day, though, so he pulled himself up the stairs and into his bedroom to write some letters. 

_Tracey,_

_Back on home soil yet? Desperately seeking reassurance that you’ve not decided to become one with the Continent. Not sure if I can survive the holidays without your musings on the latest developments on Hollyoaks or your florid descriptions of the fine gentlemen of the London Underground. Send word post-haste to confirm your location._  

_Zacharias_

 

_Megan,_

_How are the Harpies treating you? Please try to avoid having them claw your eyes out, as I have read that harpies tend to do. If the job is really worth it, you’ll end up on a broom. See if they’re holding tryouts soon. Or just ask._

_Regarding your last letter, no, I don’t think it’s worth giving Wayne another chance. Not that I’m an authority on the matter, but I am almost certain there are better kissers in the greater Cardiff area. Good luck._  

_Zacharias_

 

He began a letter to Anthony, but thought the better of it. Anthony had asked him for daily updates on his meals, clothing and conversations, and he hadn’t even changed out of his pyjamas yet. That letter would have to wait for later. Besides, he could send the owl to Tracey and Anthony in London at the same time, and then on to where Megan was staying in Cardiff, and they would each just have to work out which letter was theirs.

Until then, he would have to pass the day somehow. And all the days to come.

After a cursory shower, Zacharias pulled on a pair of trousers and a shirt from the top of his suitcase and set about sitting in the garden reading a Herbology textbook. It wasn’t his best subject, but being a bit hopeless at it felt like personally letting down Professor Sprout. And if he was going to scrape a passing N.E.W.T. grade, he’d need to study in the holidays.

It was a dry read, but he made it through the afternoon until his father arrived home, announcing his presence by calling out from the hallway.

“I ordered pizza. Will that do?”

Zacharias closed his textbook and joined his father in the hallway.

“It doesn’t matter either way,” Dr. Smith said. “You’ll have to make do with pizza.”

When the order arrived, they sat at the table in an awkward silence waiting to be broken by whoever dared to speak first.

“I am sure I’ve mentioned before that I prefer the vegetarian,” Zacharias said finally, staring at the slice of meat feast in his hand.

Dr. Smith looked blankly at the pizza box. “No son of mine prefers a vegetarian pizza to a meat feast. Are you a Scotsman or not?”

“I’m a discerning Scotsman,” Zacharias said. “And the meat they use isn’t fantastic.”

“They spoil you at that school,” Dr. Smith said. “Don’t argue. I was there once. The food is better than most of those children deserve.”

Zacharias decided not to point out the irony in this being said by a man who didn’t even know how to turn on the oven.

“Your dormitories are next to the kitchen, from memory,” Dr. Smith continued. “I suppose there are a lot of overweight Hufflepuffs.”

“No more than any other house,” Zacharias said, more anger in his tone than was necessary. Ever since he had realised just how much his father disapproved of his sorting, he had taken to defending Hufflepuff as vehemently as possible. In fact, he would probably defend it to anyone but his housemates. They didn’t need to think they were any more important than they already did.

“Well,” Dr. Smith said, “surely there’s a correlation between their distance to the kitchen and—”

“And I suppose every Ravenclaw is a perfect specimen of athleticism and health, what with all the time they spend away from their desks?” Zacharias snapped.

Dr. Smith raised an eyebrow, but didn’t reply.

Zacharias forced down a slice of pizza before he decided that he needed to tell his father about his accomplishment of the day.

“I phoned mother.”

“Is that right,” Dr. Smith said flatly, glancing up from his plate. “What did she have to say for herself?”

“She expects me to go to her wedding,” Zacharias said.

“And I expect you refused.”

“Naturally.”

Dr. Smith nodded. “Good. It’s an utter farce. Marriage at her age can only mean one thing.”

“Money?” Zacharias asked, taking a second slice from the box.

“Money,” his father confirmed. “As though she doesn’t already have enough.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I don’t doubt that it will be a boring affair. You’re better off not going.”

Zacharias gave a slight nod. 

When he had finally finished his second slice, his father had finished four, and he realised with some dismay that the remaining two slices would be breakfast and lunch the next day. His father put the pizza box in the fridge and decamped to the sitting room to listen to the radio and read the newspaper. This was Zacharias’ cue to disappear upstairs and not emerge for the rest of the night.

He closed his bedroom door firmly behind him sat down to write a letter to Anthony, realising as he wrote that he’d forgotten to eat lunch. This was probably what Megan had meant that time in fifth year when she called him a “serial under-eater” after he had nearly fallen off his broom during one particularly draining Quidditch practise. He smiled to himself and dipped his quill into his inkpot.

_Anthony,_

_Food: takeaway curry (leftovers), two slices of pizza (meat feast—unremarkable). Clothing: black jeans, white shirt. Elegant, I know. Try not to be too jealous of my sartorial excellence. Conversations: spoke to my mother on the phone. Spoke to my father over dinner. Mother continues to disapprove of my life and choices. Father continues to display alarming levels of Ravenclaw snobbery. Also, he questioned my Scottish heritage given that I dislike meat feasts. Just plain offensive. Hope you’re having more fun than I am._  

_Zacharias_

 

He folded the letter and placed it atop the ones he’d written earlier, getting up to call the family owl. The owl, which remained nameless due to the laziness and lack of creativity possessed by both father and son, generally sat perched on a tree at the back of the garden. Zacharias opened his window and signalled it over with a whistle.

“You’ve been to Tracey, Megan and Anthony before, haven’t you?” he said. The owl squawked in response. Zacharias tied the letters to its leg with a bit of string and sent it on its way.

It was morning before he received any replies. Zacharias was woken by Anthony’s owl—one he recognised instantly—tapping insistently at his window.

 

_Zach,_

_Good morning! I did get your owl last night, but I was so tired that I slept early. Of course, the upshot of this is that I woke up at five this morning and had nothing better to do than reply to your letter. You’d be surprised how awful Muggle television is at five am. Actually, maybe you wouldn’t. Anyway, I suppose from the fact that I got out of bed at five am and turned on the telly, you can tell that I’m not having much fun. Michael phoned me—which, by the way, you’re free to do any time (I think you have my number?)—to discuss plans for his Manchester meet-up, and it seems he’s already emphasised to you that you’re not welcome. Such a pity that stubborn people have such a hard time being friendly with other stubborn people. Anyway, moving on._

_Food: so far this morning I have eaten half a slice of Battenberg cake. I don’t even know why I had it in the fridge. I hate Battenberg cake. I was about to tell you that you’re not eating well, but the Battenberg cake rather negates any advice I might have to give. Clothing: I’m wearing a bathrobe, and not much else. Gentlemen, please, not all at once. Conversations: does writing letters count?_

_Try not to let yourself get too bored. Phone me later—maybe when Hollyoaks is on—and we can discuss a way to smuggle you into Manchester._

_Regards,_  

_Anthony_

 

Zacharias sighed and slumped down on his bed. He most certainly did _not_ have Anthony’s phone number. If he did, he probably wouldn’t bother with owls. But he didn’t have anyone’s phone number—he wasn’t even good at phone calls. They always ended in protracted silences and stilted goodbyes. 

It was another half-hour before he could find the energy to get out of bed, and he penned a quick reply to Anthony to stop the owl from sitting on his windowsill and looking forlorn.

 

_Anthony,_

_I don’t have your phone number. Sorry. I’ll spare a thought for you when I watch Hollyoaks._  

_Zacharias_

 

The next reply came later in the day, while Zacharias was valiantly struggling through the last slice of the meat feast for lunch. He’d thought it might be a good idea to give it a minute in the microwave—the cold slice for breakfast had been singularly unpleasant—but all that did was leave it soggy and unappetising. 

The kitchen window was open, and his owl flew in, looking rather tired out and worse for wear. He pulled the letter off and shooed the owl away, flicking the letter open with a free hand.

 

_Smith!_

_The Continent did treat me well, but the gentlemen of Paris treated me even better. I do indeed have some fine tales to tell you, but that can wait for when you’re in London. Oh, I forgot to mention, you’re coming down in August. I’m stagnating and require company. Daphne and Milly aren’t back yet. They moved on to Rome, where apparently the gentlemen are far more obliging. So you’re going to have to come down soon. I’ll give you until the beginning of August, though, since I’m being nice. Anthony will be around too, so it’s not like you’ll be coming down just for me._

_Let me know if you can’t make it, and I’ll send someone to break your legs._  

_Tracey xoxo_

 

Emotional blackmail aside, it would be nice to see her after so long. And Anthony would be there too. His mother’s wedding was in August, though. If he were to be in London, he supposed it would be unavoidable.

That evening, Zacharias accosted his father in the hallway as he entered. “There has been a development,” he said.

“Oh?” Dr. Smith hung his hat on the coat rack, not sounding very interested.

“Yes,” Zacharias said, “it turns out I’ll be going to London after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this chapter (especially with fleshing out the role of "Zacharias Smith's haughty father"), so please do tell me what you think! I do love getting comments.
> 
> And if any of you feel so inclined to see my writing process and yell at me over tumblr, this seems to be a good time to advertise my writing blog, which is memordes.tumblr.com. C:


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I'm mostly publishing this now because I'm trying to work how to phrase something all the way over in chapter nine. Anyway, this one is a bit of a fun chapter! I feel like it sets up a lot of quite important things. Also, you know, London. Total overindulgence on my part because I absolutely adore London but I am a foreigner so if any of you spot any inaccuracies please do let me know!

Zacharias found his way out of St. Pancras station to see Tracey standing by a cab rank, raising her hand in salute in his direction. Of course she knew exactly when he would arrive—they had been organising his trip to London for weeks, and he’d had nothing better to do in Ayr than memorise the itinerary. Naturally, that meant he was exemplarily punctual.

He reached Tracey, and she pulled open the boot of the cab behind her. “Dad’s driving,” she said. “I’ll get your case.”

Before Zacharias could protest, Tracey grabbed it from him and hauled it into the boot. “We’re not far from here, but I made dad bring the cab anyway.”

“Doesn’t he have to, you know, pick up actual customers?” Zacharias asked.

Tracey held open the door for him. “Well, yes, but I convinced him to break routine for a few minutes.”

“We could have caught the tube,” Zacharias said, almost apologetic. He got into the cab and Tracey slid in after him, shutting the door.

“Not a problem,” Tracey’s father grunted from the driver’s seat.

“Anyway, we’ll swing by the flat first so you can put your things down, and then meet Anthony for lunch at the markets,” Tracey said. “He wanted to take us both somewhere fancy, but he’s all talk. I’ve seen what’s in his fridge.”

“Was it mostly Battenberg cake?”

Tracey shrugged. “That and microwave dinners from Waitrose.”

“Oh, from Waitrose,” Zacharias said. “Well then he’s _definitely_ fancy.”

In fact, Zacharias felt a bit out of place around Anthony and Tracey, because all things considered, he was much _fancier_ than them. He lived in a two-storey house in the suburbs; they lived in flats in the city. He even remembered the first time the three of them had met aboard the Hogwarts Express—they had both spoken about how much it had cost to buy all of their school robes and textbooks. Zacharias had kept quiet, thinking it better not to mention that his father barely had to make a dent in his savings for the expenses.

The cab pulled up a few minutes later outside a block of flats with a small lawn out front and peeling, white-painted railings separating the grass from the pavement. It was different from what Zacharias had imagined, but he had never been anywhere in London but the station. He thanked her father as he got out of the cab and followed Tracey down the path.

The building didn’t have a lift—and given that it was a Muggle neighbourhood, he couldn’t levitate his suitcase up the stairs. By the time they reached the eleventh floor Zacharias was embarrassingly out of breath. He’d gone stale from inactivity since he’d been home from Hogwarts.

Tracey, on the other hand, seemed just fine. “Hurry up, Smith,” she said. “We’re meant to be meeting Anthony in half an hour.”

“How far is it to the markets from here?” he asked.

“Just a short walk. Get your stuff in. You’ll be sleeping on the sofa.”

Down the end of the front corridor was the flat’s living room—Zacharias’ bedroom for the next month. The sofa was positioned next to glass doors framed by vertical blinds, the whole room overlooking a balcony. There was a small telly and a hole-in-the-wall kitchen, and a stack of Muggle newspapers in the corner.

“Just put your case wherever,” Tracey said. Zacharias kept a hold of it and stood looking for a spare inch of space. Tracey smacked him on the shoulder. “Hurry up and dump it,” she said. “We’ve got to go.”

The Camden markets were only about fifteen minutes on foot from Tracey’s flat, and for all her rushing, they were there before Anthony. Tracey and Anthony had arranged to meet at the end of a bridge. Before Zacharias could ask what a bridge was doing in the middle of a marketplace, they had arrived, and he could see the place for himself.

Zacharias and Tracey were pushed to the side of the pavement by a passing crowd of people talking loudly in another language. When they had passed, Tracey nudged Zacharias and gestured across the road. Anthony was on the other side of the street, staring at the bridge as though it could personally help him find the people he was meant to be meeting.

“Goldstein!” Tracey shouted. A pedestrian glanced at her in alarm, but it did the trick, and Anthony came rushing across the street.

He pulled them into a hug—one arm each. “And how long has it been since it was just the three of us?”

“Too long,” Tracey said.

Lunch was a brief affair. Tracey was eager to get back to her flat so that the three of them could just sit and chat. They hadn’t really had the opportunity to spend time together during their seventh year. Tracey spent more time with her housemates—for the Slytherins in particular, it had become passé to be seen with anyone from the other houses. Zacharias and Anthony should have, in theory, still seen each other a lot in class and in Dumbledore’s Army. But after a series of rather nasty incidents—that by all rights should have temporarily ended more than just one friendship—they had gone for a good four months without so much as looking at one another.

“Let’s not dwell on that,” Anthony said. They sat on Tracey’s sofa and she flicked on the telly, letting it murmur quietly in the background.

“No, you have to tell me,” Tracey said. “I wasn’t there. I missed all the fun.”

“I would hardly call it fun,” Zacharias mumbled.

“Quite,” Anthony said. “It was a protracted silliness stemming from a redundant argument, and that’s all there is to it.”

Zacharias might have called it more than just a “protracted silliness,” but he knew better than to disagree. He slumped back against the arm of the sofa, brining one leg up to rest beneath him. “So tell us about Paris,” he said, changing the subject.

“Paris,” Tracey said, “was wonderful.” She pulled herself up so that she was perching on the other arm of the sofa. “Milly was more interested in the galleries than anything else, and Daph just wanted to shop, so we split our days between the two. But at night… that was when _I_ got free rein.” She grinned.

“So it was the nightclubs?” Anthony said.

Tracey laughed. “You know me too well. The French do excellent cocktails, by the way. I got it off with a bartender and I kept trying to ask him what was in this one drink, but I couldn’t understand a word he said.”

“Was he speaking French?” Zacharias asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, yes,” Tracey said. “As they do in France.” She coughed. “Anyway, I was drunk, so even if my grasp on French was any better, I still wouldn’t remember exactly what he said.”

“That’s reassuring to know,” Anthony said. “Do you at least remember what he looked like?”

The look on Tracey’s face indicated that she did indeed. “Tall—six foot two, maybe—and blond. Bit of a pout.”

“You call six-two _tall_?” Zacharias joked, although he couldn’t much disagree from the lofty height of six-four.

“Zach, you’re an anomaly,” Anthony said, “and as such you have absolutely no right to talk.” He turned to Tracey. “Anyway, six-two, blond and pouty isn’t a bad mix.”

“I suppose you’d prefer two more inches, though,” Tracey said.

Anthony glanced quickly at Zacharias, before returning his gaze to Tracey. “I’m not picky,” he said, shrugging.

“I see,” Tracey said, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hands. “Then what is your type?”

“I just said I’m not picky, didn’t I?” Anthony waved his hands around. “I’m being deliberately vague, after all.”

“Thought so,” Tracey said.

Zacharias shook his head. “You’re talking about sex, aren’t you?”

Tracey leant even further forward. “What’s _your_ type, Smith?”

“I don’t have one,” he said bluntly. Actually, the truth was a lot closer to “I haven’t thought about it because, to be honest, the idea of sex terrifies me and I try to spend as little time as possible considering putting my cock in anything other than a pair of pants,” but he wasn’t quite ready to broach that subject with Tracey in the room. She had made it very clear on numerous occasions that sex was very important to her. It would feel like a bit of a betrayal to be openly repulsed by it.

“Oh well,” she said, “you can sleep on it.”

“If I get any sleep tonight,” he said.

“Where are you sleeping, exactly?” Anthony asked. “I never asked; I just assumed that you and Tracey had sorted it out—”

“On this sofa,” Zacharias said. “Bit lumpy, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” Tracey said. “At least I’m not making you sleep on the kitchen floor.”

“I feel a bit stupid now,” Anthony said. “I’ve got a spare bed—well, a double bed that’s designed to split if you use a Severing Charm—and I didn’t even think to offer you!”

“Wouldn’t your parents mind?” Zacharias asked. “Tracey said hers were alright with this, so…”

He trailed off, watching Anthony and Tracey exchange a meaningful look. “I suppose I should tell you about my, uh, situation,” Anthony said.

“He lives alone,” Tracey said. Anthony frowned at her, but didn’t deny it.

“For how long?” Zacharias asked. There was definitely more to this than either of them were letting on.

“Since the end of fifth year,” Anthony said. “Remember when I gave you my new address? But look, it’s a long story—”

“I’ve got time.”

Anthony sighed. “It was never strictly legal, since I was underage at the time. But when You Know Who came back, I told my parents, and, well… my father’s Muggleborn. He worked in the Ministry, and he knew what it would mean. So he and my mother went to live with his family in Canada. They bought me the flat so I could keep attending Hogwarts, and by the time the Muggleborn Registration Committee was established, I was of age and able to prove my magical blood.”

“You could have told me,” Zacharias said. It was odd, but he was almost _offended_ that Anthony had kept this from him.

“My parents told me to tell as few people as possible. So I gave out my new address when people asked, but I only told Michael and Terry. Tracey only found out two weeks ago when she dropped by to watch soaps. I wasn’t expecting her.”

“He spent most of the time apologising and trying to explain. I didn’t even get to tell him about Paris, and we missed half of Corrie,” Tracey said.

“So don't take it personally,” Anthony concluded. He rubbed the back of his head and frowned like he was certain that Zacharias would, in fact, take it personally.

“Don't worry about it,” he said. He didn’t want _both_ of them worrying about it, after all. “I’m fine staying here.”

It was fine, even though Tracey’s father got up at ridiculous hours to start his shift, and Tracey's mother, when she was around, had a habit of cooking loudly at three a.m. More importantly, it was close to where Zacharias’ mother worked. So when, on his third day in London, she summoned him to lunch in Hampstead, he at least knew how to get to Camden Town station and find his way onto the right train. He tried not to think about the fact that he could stay on an extra stop to go to Anthony’s flat, even though he didn't exactly know how to walk there from the station.

Lunch was in a small café just off the main road, and Zacharias was fashionably late. His mother stood waiting outside with her arms folded across her chest.

“You’re late.”

“I got lost,” Zacharias said, shuffling a hand in his pocket so that she wouldn’t see the tube map—which he had been committing to memory—poking out the top.

“Where are you staying?” she asked, turning away and pushing open the door to the café. A bell attached to the door signalled their arrival as Zacharias followed his mother through. Lorraine was clearly a regular, because the waiter greeted her with familiarity, but no congeniality, as befitted her status as a businesswoman. They sat at a table by the window and were presented with laminated menus, peeling at the edges. “I asked where you’re staying,” she repeated.

“Camden,” Zacharias said. “With a friend.”

Lorraine nodded, inclining her head only slightly.  “And I presume you have bought a suitable suit for the wedding? None of that… _robes_ business?”

He shook his head. “My friends are taking me shopping on Monday. What sort of suit should I be looking for?”

“Well, you’ll be lucky to find trousers long enough, so I doubt you’ll have much choice,” she said, relaxing back into her chair and flipping the menu open—a tokenistic gesture, given that she probably ordered the same thing every time. “Just buy something tasteful, no-nonsense.”

In place of a response, Zacharias opened his menu and gave it a brief glance. Unlike his father, his mother would not be offended if he elected just to order the Greek salad.

“Before the wedding, I’d like you to meet my fiancé and his children. I’ll be having lunch with the extended family next Sunday; you’d be doing me a favour by being there.”

“A favour?” Zacharias asked. “Was it not you who called me an ‘antisocial trainwreck, not even fit to dine at a fish-and-chip shop’?”

“It was,” she said, smiling humourlessly. “However, Gordon wishes to make your acquaintance before the wedding. The sooner we get that out of the way, the better.”

The waiter came by their table with his notepad at the ready. “And what will you be having today?”

“I’ll have the chicken breast,” Lorraine said. “And a flat white.”

Zacharias folded his menu closed. “The Greek salad and a glass of water, thanks.”

When the waiter left, Lorraine frowned at her son. “You can’t just eat salad,” she said. “Young men need meat in their diets.”

“I’m going to a steakhouse tonight,” Zacharias lied. He hadn’t quite expected his mother to be as vehemently in support of meat as his father, and he briefly considered pretending to be a vegetarian just to see the look on her face. But it was easier just to feed her comforting white lies, so that she wouldn’t ask any more questions on the matter.

That was not to say that she wouldn’t continue asking questions about every other aspect of Zacharias’ life, though.

“These _friends_ of yours,” she said, “are they from your school?”

“I’d hardly have any other opportunity to make friends,” he said.

“And do you have a girlfriend yet? At your age, you should be starting to see girls.”

One more white lie wouldn’t hurt, would it?

“Yeah, I have a girlfriend,” Zacharias said, pressing a finger into his thigh and hoping that his mother wouldn’t realise that he was bullshitting her.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Er, Antonia.”

Somewhere along the line, the word “girlfriend” had become muddled with the few thoughts that Zacharias had ever spared for the whole idea, had filtered into Susan’s insistent matchmaking, and had come out the other end as Anthony. But he’d panicked, and quickly feminised the name on the tip of his tongue.

Zacharias’ fingers curled into fists as he mentally berated himself. Why couldn’t he have just gone for Tracey, or Megan, or even just _made up a name_?

“Don’t be shy about it,” his mother said, almost smiling. “What’s her surname?”

“Goldstein,” Zacharias said quickly. No point now in trying to be creative—all he had to do was tweak someone he knew to fit the role. And if he was lucky, his mother wouldn’t ask to meet “Antonia”.

“And is she… you know…”

“Yes, mother, she’s Jewish,” he said. “I’m sure you would have preferred a nice Anglican girl, but—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lorraine snapped. “I mean, is she one of _your lot_?”

“Oh,” Zacharias said. “Yes, I suppose she is.”

“A Jewish Wiccan,” she said. “What next?”

Zacharias just frowned. He would engage as little as possible on the subject of Antonia, and if he was lucky he would make it to the end of his time in London without having to mention her again. Thankfully, their food arrived to spare him any further interrogation—his mother was a great believer in not talking during a meal, but years of Hogwarts feasts had made sure that Zacharias was well accustomed to noisy tables. All the noise that Tracey’s father made was almost comforting compared to the sharply-honed silences that his own parents had spent years cultivating.

After he had given his mother a cursory kiss on the cheek and watched her walk back to her office, Zacharias caught the tube back to Camden and tried to forget about the whole thing.

Monday saw Megan’s arrival in London—she’d be there for a day before taking the evening train to Manchester with Anthony. Zacharias found Megan, Tracey, and Anthony to be quite willing accomplices in his search for a suit that wouldn’t make him stand out at a Muggle wedding. Anthony had immediately suggested Regent Street. Apparently it was an expensive shopping district, and Anthony seemed a little bit worried about that, but Zacharias told him it would be fine. Besides, Dr. Smith had always said that a good set of robes was an investment for life. The same was sure to hold for suits.

Zacharias had always considered himself quite a fashionable person. He remembered when he was very young—he wasn’t sure how young exactly, but he had still lived in Glasgow with both of his parents at the time—hearing one of his mother’s friends say that you should always wear something that showed off your figure. In hindsight, she had almost certainly just been talking about women, and Zacharias had got some very rude comments about his well-tailored coats as a result. But once he’d overheard a passing Muggle in Ayr call him “fit,” and that was all the confirmation he needed. That, and the fact that Su, Megan and Susan had unanimously declared his dress robes to be the very best at the Yule Ball. He didn’t need to tell them that the robes were well-preserved hand-me-downs from his father.

After an ill-planned walk from Leicester Square and half an hour of having to drag Megan away from the boutiques on Carnaby Street, they finally made it to Regent Street proper, which Tracey described as being so posh that her dad physically couldn’t drive his cab anywhere near it. Anthony made a joke about taking her shopping in Sloane Square that went right over Zacharias’ head, but Megan and Tracey laughed, so he did too.

“No, I’ve got a better idea,” Anthony said. “Let’s look in Liberty.”

“Smith, if you wear one of their fancy patterned shirts to the wedding, I’ll buy you lunch on every Hogsmeade day once we’re back at school,” Tracey said.

When Zacharias saw the shirts in question, he couldn’t have agreed faster. They were in all sorts of colours and patterns—most of them paisley—and while Anthony assured him that they were very respectable, they were just unusual enough to piss his mother right off.

He bought five.

Three hours, two ties, and a suit (picked to match the shirts) later, the four of them collapsed into the nearest café for lunch. Megan pulled out a copy of the Daily Prophet once they’d ordered and set about flicking through the pages.

“Shit, Jones,” Tracey said, “put that thing away! Don’t want to break the Statute of Secrecy, do you?”

Megan laughed. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a stickler for the rules,” she said. “Besides, it’s so busy in here. No-one will notice.”

“Just put it away when the food comes,” Anthony said in his Prefect voice.

Megan rolled her eyes, but Zacharias knew that she would. She wasn’t the reckless sort.

“Oh,” she said, “here’s something interesting. The Ministry are looking for a salesman. Someone who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, preferably a friend of Harry Potter, to give seminars on what happened and how the Wizarding World is recovering, et cetera.”

“Anthony could do that,” Tracey said. “Fits the bill perfectly.”

“Don’t be daft,” Anthony said. “To begin with, I’m not exactly a _friend_ of Harry’s. And I don’t need a job, least of all at the Ministry. My parents worked there, you know?”

“So?” Tracey asked.

“Well, I don’t exactly want to follow in their illustrious footsteps,” Anthony said with a shrug.

“I’ll take the job,” Zacharias said. “Probably pays well.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tracey said, rolling her eyes, “but you didn’t fight in the Battle, and Potter hates your filthy Hufflepuff guts.”

“I’d lie about it,” he replied.

Tracey glared at him. “No, you wouldn’t. Apart from anything else, you’re not giving up on your N.E.W.T.s just to get a job.”

“Well, that’s that then,” he said.

Anthony laughed. “I reckon no-one’s going to take them up on the job. We’ve all got better things to be doing with our lives.”

“Like spending three hours in Liberty while Zach tried on twenty different suit jackets?” Megan asked.

“None of them fit properly!” Zacharias said.

“That’s because your standards are ridiculous,” Tracey said, “but we won’t hold it against you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “You’re so reassuring.”

“Well, if it helps,” Anthony began, “it wasn’t a waste of my time. It was this or repeatedly packing and unpacking my suitcase.”

Just then, the waiter arrived with the first of their food. Tracey quickly reached across and shoved the Daily Prophet under the table, leaving Megan giggling hopelessly because Tracey had inadvertently felt up her tits in the process. The waiter looked bored, like she saw this sort of thing every day.

It was a late lunch, so after Megan had dragged them around Carnaby Street a few more times, they had to practically run to Oxford Circus to get to Euston in time for Megan and Anthony’s train. Switching lines at Tottenham Court Road took longer than expected—Megan had stopped to listen to a busker. Apparently they didn’t have many of them in her unpronounceable Welsh hamlet, and it was still a fascination despite the fact that she’d been in a flat in Cardiff for the last few months. By the time they reached Euston, there was only half an hour before the train left, and Megan and Anthony had to surreptitiously unshrink their suitcases in the bathrooms.

Zacharias and Tracey couldn’t get onto the platform to see them off, so it was rushed goodbyes at the last minute.

“It was nice to see Megan,” Tracey said as they got on a train back to Camden Town. “I always forget that I like her company.”

“I’d suggest that you spend more time together, but she won’t be coming back to Hogwarts, so—”

“Yeah,” Tracey said. “Guess it’s just another missed opportunity.”

They stood in silence until the train stopped at Mornington Crescent and more people filed in, pressing them closer together. Zacharias had to duck on the tube at the best of times, and the evening crowd did not treat him kindly. He pulled his shopping bags closer to his chest.

“I suppose you miss Anthony already,” Tracey said lightly. There was something in her tone that made Zacharias wonder for a moment whether she had something of Susan’s motives behind her words.

“Er,” he said. “I suppose so.”

“I think he fancies you,” Tracey said. “A right proper crush.”

“That’s nice,” Zacharias said. As Anthony had informed multiple people on multiple occasions, he was several leagues above romance and far too sophisticated to engage with the concept—but Tracey was the kind of person to miss the totally obvious and pick up on the obscure.

“I also think _you_ fancy him,” she continued, unperturbed by his lack of enthusiasm. “So what are you waiting for?”

Zacharias pursed his lips before speaking. “I don’t fancy him,” he said. “Although…”

“Although?”

The train pulled into Camden Town, and the doors slid open. Tracey was a natural at elbowing her way through the crowd, and cut a path behind her for Zacharias and his expensive clothes.

They stood on the platform, and Tracey took hold of his wrist. “I’m not letting you go through until you finish that sentence.”

“The other day. Friday. When I had lunch with my mother. She asked me if I had a girlfriend.”

Tracey grinned. “Go on.”

Zacharias gripped his bags until his knuckles went white. “Well, I—I fucked up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do leave a comment! I'd love to hear what you're thinking and all that C:


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically just me having adventures with my favourite tropes and emphasising that, despite the ship tag, this is really a story about friendship. Hope you enjoy!

For Zacharias, phoning his mother was always something of a personal achievement. Every time he did it, he would give himself a mental pat on the back for holding a conversation with someone who wasn’t sitting next to the till at a pizza place.

He called her a few days before he was due to meet her fiancé to get the details. It was a family lunch at a house in South Kensington, and when he asked Tracey about the neighbourhood her eyes went wide.

“Kensington is strictly for rich people and art dealers,” she said. “Shit, your mum must be marrying into money. Could be worse, though. He could live in Belgravia.”

The last thing his mother had said to him was “don’t laugh when you meet him.” He’d asked Tracey what she thought of that too.

“Probably he’s a cripple,” was her opinion. “Or a hideously disfigured war hero.”

“I wouldn’t laugh at a cripple,” Zacharias said.

Tracey pulled a face at him. “Yes, go on, take the moral high ground. Well, maybe he’s got a foreign accent.”

“His name is Gordon,” Zacharias pointed out. “What if he’s bloody Scottish? Fuck, then I’d _have_ to laugh.”

Either way, he wasn’t looking forward to lunch. He’d put on one of his new shirts and his smartest jeans, but his Docs were scuffed and the moment he stepped outside the wind had its way with his hair.

“The windswept look just makes you a bit more mod than he’ll be expecting,” Tracey said. She’d decided to take the tube with him, either because she was worried he’d get lost or just plain curious about an unfamiliar part of town.

“I hope he disapproves,” Zacharias said. “Maybe I won’t have to go to the wedding.”

“Unlikely,” Tracey said. She paused, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Won’t your mum want to meet _Antonia_?”

So _that’s_ why she’d insisted on coming.

“Tracey, no,” he said. “Not happening.”

“Come on,” she said, “it’ll be fun. I’m a pretty good actress.”

“My mother will probably think you look a right slag in those earrings.”

Tracey flicked one of her gold hoops with a laugh. “Yeah, and she’ll think you’re a shirtlifter in those trousers. What’s your point?”

Zacharias shoved his hands into his pockets. “One, I don’t know what you mean by ‘shirt lifter’. Two, do you have any idea how hard it is for me to find clothes that fit?”

“Just a bit,” Tracey said. “I _did_   go shopping with you.”

They walked a while in silence. When they reached the station, Tracey nudged Zacharias in the arm. “Come on. Let me be your Antonia.”

“Are you coming onto me?” Zacharias said, aiming for a joke but missing the mark by a mile.

“Ugh,” she said. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

That seemed to be the end of the matter. The trip from Camden Town to South Kensington took two trains but it wasn’t too long, and Zacharias and Tracey reached the station with time to spare.

“So where are you going to wait while I’m at lunch?” he asked her.

“I’ll probably spend a while in the Victoria and Albert,” she said, gesturing towards the tunnel that led to a cluster of museums. “And don’t worry, I won’t wait.”

Zacharias left her and walked out of the station into a well-to-do suburban area. The address he’d been given wasn’t hard to find, and he schooled his face into dispassionate seriousness as he pressed the button for the intercom. It crackled for a moment before a loud click; then silence.

“Hello?” he said, stooping a bit to speak into what he presumed was some sort of receiver. “I’m Lorraine’s son,” he added for clarity.

“Wonderful!” said a man’s voice. “I’ll be down in a moment.” Presumably this was Gordon—thankfully, there was not even a hint of Scotland in his public school accent. And if he was personally coming to the door, then he couldn’t be a cripple.

When he opened the door, Zacharias quickly took in his appearance. He was probably what most people considered an imposingly tall man, with broad shoulders and a sensible-bordering-on-military haircut. He dressed like he had stepped straight off a yacht in a cigarette advert.

“Good to meet you at last,” he said, extending a hand. “Gordon Smith.”

Zacharias took a step backward. “Zacharias… Smith,” he said, cautiously putting his own arm forward.

Gordon laughed, shaking with a death-grip on Zacharias’ hand. “I suppose Lorraine didn’t warn you that we have the same name,” he said. “She certainly didn’t tell me that you were such a tall lad.”

When Zacharias got his hand back, he felt like he might have been missing a few bones.

“Come on in,” Gordon said. “We’re all through in the sitting room.”

“We” turned out to be Gordon’s three children from a previous marriage, with Lorraine sitting stiffly in the corner. Zacharias’ future step-siblings were introduced to him as Belinda, Stephanie, and Jessica. Later, when he told Tracey about the lunch, he would describe them as three posh teenage girls with very little of any importance to say—sort of like Daphne Greengrass, but without the sense of humour.

Even though Zacharias was early, Gordon suggested that they get straight to lunch. Zacharias could tell immediately that this was a health-conscious family—no large servings, and everything was plain and tasteless. It was a far cry from the greasy Hogwarts fare and his father’s inexhaustible budget for takeaway. They said grace before eating and didn’t talk throughout the meal. Zacharias hadn’t said grace since his mother left for London when he was eight.

After the meal, they returned to the sitting room. Gordon had apparently decided to fill the role of a proper stepfather and began to bombard Zacharias with the dreaded questions about his personal life.

“Your mother tells me you just finished at a boarding school in Scotland.”

“I did,” Zacharias said. He hadn’t mentioned to his mother that he’d be repeating a year. That was just asking for trouble.

“But you’re staying with friends in London?” Gordon asked. “Are they your school friends?”

“Er, yes,” Zacharias said. “There are people from all over at the school.”

Gordon seemed satisfied with that, nodding to himself. “And how about your girlfriend?”

Zacharias bit his lip, resisting the instinct to bury his head in his hands and scream. “She’s from London,” he said dumbly.

“And will she be able to make it to the wedding?”

It took a moment for Zacharias to answer, silently weighing up his options. “I’ll have to ask her,” he said eventually, trying to keep his voice steady.

“See that you do,” Gordon said.

Zacharias spent the ride back to Camden Town resting his head against a vertical handrail and berating himself for ever thinking that it was a good idea to pretend he had a girlfriend. He considered talking to Tracey about it and getting her advice, but she was a biased party. She’d want to pretend to be Antonia and go to the wedding, and that simply wouldn’t do.

When he reached the flat, Tracey was on the phone. She had her feet up on the sofa and was twirling the cord in her fingers, but she turned sharply when Zacharias tapped her on the shoulder.

“Oh! Smith’s just got home. Do you want to talk to him?”

Zacharias raised his eyebrows, and Tracey mouthed “Anthony.” He shrugged in reply.

“Right you are,” Tracey said. “I’ll hand him over.”

She flipped herself off the sofa and untangled her fingers from the cord, passing the handset to Zacharias. He sat down and tucked his legs up to his chest.

“Zach!” Anthony said. “How are you?”

“Full of regret and boiled spinach. You?”

Anthony cackled. “Oh, dear. That doesn’t sound too good. I mean, look, I’m doing well, but Manchester’s a bit gloomy. I think Michael was trying to engineer some sort of party, but it’s just a group of depressed teenagers wiping each other’s tears.”

“I suppose that would mostly be Cho, though,” Zacharias said.

“Ah,” Anthony said, “she broke up with him. Another reason why Michael’s not exactly the best host at the moment. Still, it’s nice to see Su and Justin again after so long, even if they are being funny around Susan.”

“Are they coming back to Hogwarts in September?” Zacharias asked, fiddling with a button on his shirt. Privately, he thought it might be nice to see them again too.

“Yeah, both of them,” Anthony said. “I guess I shouldn’t be so negative. It’s been fun, really.”

“I feel like there’s something else to negate this,” Zacharias said.

He could hear Anthony’s sigh as the unmistakable whoosh of someone breathing into a phone. “I’m not… I’m not great with big crowds,” he said. “Lots of people to pay attention to at the same time, you know, kind of sets me on edge. I much prefer smaller gatherings, like the three of us in London, or…”

“Or?”

“I guess I want to spend some time with just you,” Anthony said quietly.

Zacharias glanced around the room, but Tracey had disappeared. “Yeah,” he said. “Since we’re not writing letters, er, do you still want to do the daily summary? I know it’s not the end of the day yet, but—”

“Well, I’ve lost count of all the conversations I’ve had,” Anthony said. “Uh, bacon and eggs for breakfast—Michael can go a bit overboard with the food—but we just got pizza for lunch. And I’m wearing red cords and a denim button-up. What about you?”

“Spoken to Tracey, my mother, her fiancé and his three daughters. Cup of earl grey for breakfast, boiled spinach and dry salmon for lunch. Jeans and one of the new shirts.”

“Ooh,” Anthony said, “which one?”

“The blue floral,” Zacharias said. “Gave my mother a bit of a shock, I think, though she didn’t say anything.”

“That one was my favourite,” Anthony said.

Zacharias made a vague noise of agreement, even though he'd preferred the red and blue paisley. He was saving that one for the Hogwarts Express, mainly for shock value.

“So tell me about the stepfamily,” Anthony prompted after a brief silence.

“They think I have a girlfriend,” Zacharias blurted. Well, now that it was out there, he couldn't do much about it.

He had to hold the receiver away from his ear when Anthony laughed. “Merlin, Zach. How did you manage that?”

“It was a white lie to avoid interrogation,” he said, “but now they want to meet her at the wedding.”

“So? What are you going to do?”

Zacharias sighed. “I don't know. I'm thinking I'll just say she's out of town.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anthony said, “she's in Manchester. Except they'll think you're making her up for sure if you say that.”

“Fuck that, then,” Zacharias said. “Got any better ideas?”

Anthony paused. “Bring her along for the reception after the wedding and say she has to leave early. Get Tracey to do a bit of method acting.”

“She was already angling to come for lunch today,” Zacharias said.

“So? It's the perfect plan.”

Anthony seemed so sure of himself that Zacharias felt almost confident in having Tracey act Antonia. He wondered if this was the tone that Anthony used to convince errant first years that their early curfew was for their own good. He supposed he deserved it for making up such bullshit in the first place.

“Good luck,” Anthony said.

Zacharias felt like he would need all the luck he could muster, because there was no way he would make it through the wedding solely on the back of his own willpower.

After a too-long silence, Tracey returned to the room and grabbed the phone off Zacharias. “Sorry about him,” she said. “Bad company at the best of times.” Zacharias glanced at her, wondering how best to break the news that she would get to pretend to be his girlfriend after all.

In the end, it was all easier than he expected. Tracey agreed immediately to the plan, saying it was the kind of sensible thing that they should have come to expect from Anthony by now.

“By the way, did you tell him what you named your girlfriend?”

“Absolutely not,” Zacharias said, glaring at her.

Tracey gave him a look, but graciously didn’t say anything. She had made sure that Zacharias was quite clear where she stood on the matter, and it was much the same as where Susan stood. He hoped they never became friendly, otherwise he really would be in for it.

The wedding was being held at an Anglican church on the outskirts of London, and their trip nearly ended in disaster when Tracey steered them onto the wrong tube line, but the looming debacle was averted by a timely cab. The driver gave them a bit of an odd look, which Tracey seemed to take as a matter of pride, flicking her hair over her shoulder to show off her gold hoop earrings. Zacharias had not been able to dissuade her from wearing them. He also had not convinced her to switch her old jellies for a more respectable pair of shoes, although not for want of trying. He had nearly fallen down the stairs when she’d pushed past his attempt to barricade the door.

Zacharias was almost certain that there would be bruises left on his chest from where she shoved him.

The cab driver pulled up a block away from the church so that Zacharias could make an entrance—Tracey’s idea—and Tracey would have the chance to escape until she rejoined him for the reception.

“How does Antonia talk?” she asked as they stopped at a corner before heading off in different directions.

“Antonia talks however you talk,” Zacharias said. “But no swearing. My mother would have my skin for her next handbag if you swore.”

“Good thing the _real_ Antonia doesn’t swear,” Tracey said.

Zacharias frowned. Profanity wasn’t a prominent part of Anthony’s general speech, but Zacharias had never forgotten that time Anthony had missed a day of class and spent it curled up in a corner of the library whispering “fuck” over and over. It was after his first (and only) failing grade—a third year Muggle Studies essay on a cultural tradition of your choice, which in a fit of rebellion he’d decided to write about boy bands.

“Not to worry, though,” Tracey added. “I’m sure she’ll still get her handbag when she finds out what a dirty liar you are.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Zacharias said. “Now let’s get this over and done with. I’ll see you afterwards.”

It was worth it—sitting through the wedding ceremony, listening to the whispered comments about his choice of shirt, having to make polite conversation to people who expected something more from the son of the bride—for the look on his mother’s face when she laid eyes on Tracey. To be fair, most people didn’t show up to wedding lunches in high-waisted denim skirts and matching bolero jackets, but Tracey was nothing if not an adamant individual.

“Mother, this is Antonia,” Zacharias said, trying to sound calm as they stood outside the function hall in the crisp wind.

Lorraine looked politely shocked, and Zacharias wondered whether he ought to have warned his slightly racist mother that his “girlfriend” was half-Sri Lankan as well as half-Jewish. The two women were the same height, and they held each other’s gaze for a very stressful few seconds before Tracey spoke. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Smith.”

Zacharias nearly choked when he heard her put-on accent and frighteningly accurate mimicry of Anthony’s intonation. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand to cough.

“That’s Ms. Wortham, actually,” Lorraine said, scowling.

“My apologies,” Tracey said. “It is most progressive of you to decide to keep your name.”

“Yes, I can see that you’re the… progressive sort…

Tracey smiled.

“We should head indoors,” Zacharias said, making a point of pulling his suit jacket tighter around his chest. “It’s getting cold.”

“Good idea,” Tracey said. “I can’t stay long, unfortunately.”

Zacharias was seated beside his mother at the head table with Tracey by his side. Before they could sit down, Gordon’s youngest daughter Jessica grabbed Zacharias by the sleeve.

“I like your girlfriend’s style,” she whispered. “Can you bring her ‘round whenever you’re in London?”

“Maybe,” Zacharias said.

Jessica nodded, a perfunctory tilt of the head that reminded Zacharias of her father. “Maybe you won’t be such a boring stepbrother after all.”

Zacharias wasn’t sure whether or not to take that as a compliment, given that Jessica’s definition of boring was probably quite different to his. He wondered if thirteen-year-old Muggles considered themselves too old and too cool for magic tricks, the kind he’d grown up with before he knew about real magic. He could pull a coin from behind her ear and see if she still thought he was boring.

Lunch was served almost as soon as they were seated, and it was significantly more extravagant than the hearty-but-healthy meals his mother seemed to prefer. Tracey nearly fell off her chair when the waiter placed a steak the size of her hand in front of her. Zacharias shoved his steak to the side of the plate and picked at the salad instead.

“What’s wrong with it?” Tracey asked, letting her Antonia accent slip a bit.

“Nothing,” he said. “I think I might be a vegetarian.”

She scoffed. “You don’t just wake up one day and realise you’re a vegetarian, Zach. It’s more of a decision than a calling.”

“I don’t much like meat; is that calling enough?”

“So you’ve _decided_ to become a vegetarian. In the middle of your mum’s wedding lunch.”

“Something like that,” he said, poking at the steak with his fork. “Do you want this?”

Tracey looked at the steak like it was a siren guiding her to shipwreck. “I shouldn’t,” she said. She was silent for a few moments, before quickly switching her plate with Zacharias’. “You can have my salad.”

After lunch, Zacharias had to watch his mother acting all romantic around the wedding cake, which was not something he had ever needed to see. Tracey grabbed a slice and left—she was keen to get away before the dancing started.

“Such a pity you can’t stay any longer,” Lorraine said politely, in a tone that made it abundantly clear that she couldn’t wait to see the back of this Antonia girl.

“It really is,” Tracey said, “but my grandfather is very ill, and it’s my turn to sit with him.”

Lorraine nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

It wasn’t a cover story that Zacharias could relate to—his mother’s parents ran a small business out of a tax haven somewhere in the Caribbean and hadn’t been available to make the trip for her first wedding, let alone _this_ one. His father, on the other hand, had changed his surname and cut off all contact with his parents as soon as he left Hogwarts. 

Either way, it meant that Tracey got to leave the reception when she pleased, and Zacharias was stuck sitting in a corner and looking at his shoes so he wouldn’t have to watch his mother dancing with Gordon. He must have created some sort of bad first impression, because no-one came over to talk to him. By the time it was dark outside, he was still sitting alone, passing the time by going over the Runic Alphabet in his head as the party dwindled around him.

“You’ve been sitting there for hours,” Lorraine said, approaching him with a frown. “I suppose you would have wanted to leave with Antonia.”

“Funnily enough, I wasn’t particularly keen to spend hours with her sick grandmother,” Zacharias said, adding in an eye-roll for good measure.

His mother raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was her grandfather.”

Zacharias looked at her blankly for a moment before collecting himself. “I’m sure that’s what I said.”

“You’ll need to be more attentive if you want to keep that girl for longer than two minutes,” Lorraine said, shaking her head.

“I should probably get going,” he said, ignoring the unsolicited advice. “Make my way back to Camden before it gets too late.”

“Will you need a lift to the station? I don’t want you getting lost.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Zacharias dearly wished that, in a situation like this, he could just step behind a tree and Apparate right into Tracey’s flat. Instead, he wandered around for a while, following cars that drove with a sense of purpose, until he found what looked like a main road. It started raining just as he passed a corner store, so he pulled out his wand and muttered a quick _Impervius_ when he was sure that no-one was looking.

Eventually, he found the station. The ride was long and dull, enlivened only by a man who came on bedraggled and ranting. He paused to stare at Zacharias.

“Ain’t you seen the rain out there? Why the fuck are you dry, then?” The man shook his head.

“Because I’m a fucking Wizard,” Zacharias snapped, too tired to bother with a lie.

The man looked at him for a moment longer. “Fair enough,” he said, coughing and walking off to the other end of the carriage.

When Zacharias made it back to Camden, Tracey was waiting out the front of her building, standing under an umbrella.

“I figured you haven’t had dinner yet,” she said. “Want to go into town for a kebab?”

“Can’t,” he said. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“They have options for people like you,” she said. “Come on. I know a good place near Leicester Square.”

Zacharias gave her a look. “I’ve just spent the last five fucking years underground; do _not_ make me get on another train.”

Tracey shrugged. “You’ll cope.”

Actually, Zacharias enjoyed public transport a lot more when he was with someone else, and he was beginning to suspect that Tracey might be his Best Friend, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. The train was packed with people going to the theatre—who else would go into the city on a Sunday night?—and they didn’t get a seat, but Tracey said that was normal.

“At least the line isn’t closed,” she added.

It was still pouring when they got off at Leicester Square, and Tracey discreetly pulled him aside and cast _Finite_.

“What’s that for?” he asked. He noted too that her umbrella was still very much in her jacket pocket. “We’re going to get soaked.”

Tracey gave him a challenging grin. “Race you to the other end of the Square?”

He was still wearing the new suit and shoes that he’d worn to the wedding, and he wasn’t sure how well they’d stand up to the weather. It was busy, despite the rain, and there were obstacles everywhere in the form of people wielding umbrellas.

“You’re on.”

Tracey bolted and got a head start, so Zacharias dashed after her, nearly running into a short woman who swore at him in a language that may as well have been Mermish for all he understood it—he suspected she may just have had a very strong Irish accent, though. He could dimly recognise the rain falling in his eyes, but he didn’t pause to clear his vision as he caught up to Tracey. They hit the other side of the Square at the same time—Zacharias tripped and grabbed Tracey’s arms for support, and she was cackling as she pulled him to his feet.

Zacharias was surprised to find that he was laughing too.

It was just a short walk to the kebab shop, and the line wasn’t too long. “Getting the felafels, then?” Tracey asked.

He looked up at the menu, garish yellow text over photos of kebabs that looked so real they might have been taken with a magical camera. He wouldn’t have put it past Tracey to have hunted down the only magical kebab shop in London.

“For the record,” he said, “I’m becoming a vegetarian _tomorrow_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's stayed with me so far! Please leave a comment; I'd love to know your thoughts on the story and all that C:


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was editing this chapter for posting, I realised just how much dialogue there was. So much of it is just teenagers being idiots. Hope you enjoy!

Being in London on the day the Hogwarts Express left was a new experience. Zacharias was used to getting up at the crack of dawn to get to Glasgow in time for the early morning express, so it was practically a lie-in when Tracey woke him up at six, screaming that she hadn’t packed yet.

“That’s your own bloody fault for staying up so late,” he said, still half-asleep. They’d had the telly on until one, and a bottle of sherry at hand just in case there was nothing interesting on. There wasn’t.

Still, Zacharias had made it through the night without waking up to a hangover, so that was something.

It took Tracey too long to pack, but they made it to King’s Cross in record time.

“I suppose I’m excited to see everyone again,” Tracey said, rubbing her temple.

“You don’t sound too sure,” Zacharias said, looking over his shoulder at her as he pulled his suitcase through the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10.

She followed a moment later. “I guess I’m just worried to be seen in your company.”

“Very funny,” he said.

A group of seventh years was gathered further up the platform, and Zacharias and Tracey headed over to join them. With a look of surprise on his face, Justin Finch-Fletchley immediately accosted Zacharias.

“Oh my giddy aunt,” he said, “if it isn’t Zacharias Smith! Simply stunning to see you again, old friend.”

Justin had always been the type to value his strange sense of propriety above a more  common vernacular, and as such he gave the impression of being a character from one of the comic books that the headmaster of Zacharias’ prep school kept outside his office to give wayward students a false sense of security before their inevitable punishment. Still, his extraordinary devotion to politeness meant that it was easy to spend time in his company without getting too annoyed.

“How’ve you been holding up, then?” Justin asked.

Zacharias shrugged. “Alright, I suppose.”

“Brilliant to hear,” Justin said, wringing his hands together. “I have so missed your conversation.”

And that, Zacharias thought, was the closest that Justin would ever get to insulting someone.

“Now listen here,” Justin said, “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Susan around?”

“We just got here,” Tracey said.

Justin looked at her with wide eyes. “My goodness, but it is remiss of me not to have greeted you sooner, Tracey.”

While Zacharias had been busy with Justin, he’d neglected to speak to the other seventh years. So as Justin continued to apologise to Tracey, Zacharias turned his attention to guessing which conversation would force him onto its periphery. Anthony was talking to Hermione, both of them with matching silver badges pinned to their robes, and the others were crowded around Su, examining a book that she was holding. Neither option was particularly appealing.

Thankfully, as had happened many times before, Anthony made the decision for him.

“Zach! I almost didn’t see you there,” he said.

“Funny,” Zacharias said, “people usually tell me I stick out in a crowd.”

“There’s a surprise,” Anthony said. “Anyway, I had my membership renewed.” He gestured to the Head Boy badge. “So if you ever want to use the Prefects’ bathroom, just let me know.”

Hermione looked scandalised, and Zacharias rolled his eyes. Trust Hermione to be shocked; she was probably the only Prefect never to have given her friends the password to the bathroom.

“I hope you’re not in the habit of abusing your privilege for that sort of thing,” she said.

Anthony raised his eyebrows. “That sort of… _oh_! No, that’s what the wall opposite Barnabas the Barmy is for.”

“And that is more than I ever needed to know,” Hermione said, pursing her lips.

Zacharias glanced at Anthony, who just smiled in return. Obviously there was some big joke here that he wasn’t getting, but that was nothing unusual. “Let’s just get on the train,” he said.

It was at this point that Tracey decided to interrupt, grabbing Zacharias by the wrist.

“You stay away from those Prefects, Smith,” she said. “They’re bad influences.”

“And you’re better?” he asked, shaking off her hand.

She scowled at him. “I’ve done enough concessive socialising with your friends. You’re catching the train with my lot this time.”

Shrugging, Zacharias lifted his hand in a slight wave as he let Tracey hook her arm through his and pull him towards the Hogwarts Express. She led him to a carriage at the back of the train with a shrug and an “I assume they’ll be back here.”

Zacharias had been expecting one, maybe two Slytherins other than Tracey to be repeating their seventh year. When he and Tracey finally found their carriage—it was further forward than she’d thought—it became immediately clear that his expectation had been a guess in the wrong direction. What greeted him was almost every Slytherin student in their grade, with the exceptions of Crabbe and Nott.

Pansy was the first to speak. “What’s _he_ doing here?” she demanded.

“Theoretically, I could ask you the same question,” Zacharias said.

“Play nice,” Tracey said, claiming a seat next to Daphne. Zacharias tentatively put his case in the luggage racks and sat across from her, next to Millicent.

“Nice?” Daphne laughed. “Don’t you know that all Slytherins are evil?”

“I suppose that’s why Smith looks so surprised,” Blaise said.

Zacharias frowned. “You can address me directly if you want.”

Draco Malfoy looked up from his seat at the window. “What do you care if he’s surprised? He’s more on our side than the Gryffindors and their idiot admirers.”

“Zach is probably more evil than all of you dimwits put together,” Tracey said. “And he’s my friend. So treat him right.” She turned to Zacharias and grinned.

“And I suppose we were all surprised to see Greg here,” Daphne added.

Everyone turned to look at him, and Greg Goyle grunted in response. “My father’s making me get my N.E.W.T.s,” he explained.

“Actually, I’d say there are more of you returning this year than any other house,” Zacharias said.

“There you go,” Draco said. “We’re even more studious than the Ravenclaws.”

Zacharias was the only one who didn’t laugh—he wasn’t going to be the one to point out that while Slytherin had only one casualty among its ranks, Ravenclaw had four.

“Theo’s letting the side down, though,” Daphne said as the train began to pull away from the Platform. “He never even told us he wasn’t coming.”

“He owled me a while ago, actually,” Draco said. “He’s doing his final year at Beauxbatons.”

“Nice of him to tell _all_ of us,” Pansy said.

Zacharias noted that she and Draco weren’t sitting side-by-side as they had always done in the past. From the way the conversation continued after that—stilted, and dominated by Daphne, Tracey and Blaise—he thought maybe they’d finally broken up, and this was confirmed when they arrived at Hogsmeade Station. Draco disappeared into the crowd with Blaise and Greg, and Pansy went rushing off on her own.

“She’s taking it badly,” Daphne said. “We’re trying to be supportive, but it’ll take her a while to get over it.”

“About time, though,” Millicent said. “Maybe now she’ll learn how to form her own opinions.”

Tracey just shrugged. “So long as she works on improving her taste in men.”

When Zacharias rejoined the Hufflepuff contingent for the welcome feast, Ernie gave him his best scathing look. “What were you doing spending time with them?”

Zacharias ignored him in favour of talking to Susan, who had a few interesting stories to tell about what was going on in the Ministry from her late aunt’s friends. From what she’d heard, the families of the first year Muggleborns who had been detained before they could even make it to Hogwarts had been forced into having their memories modified, and the reintegration process would be slow and painful. Those children, in all likelihood, wouldn’t be coming to Hogwarts. The Ministry was looking into providing private tutors for them so that they could stay at home and still learn magic.

And Lisa Turpin was the only Muggleborn detained in Azkaban who still hadn’t been accounted for, which was proving to be a paperwork nightmare.

“It’s a mess, really,” Susan said. “So many people have quit or, well, died… is it any wonder there are all these stories in the Prophet about low morale at the Ministry? There’s a lot of confidence in Minister Shacklebolt, but other than that, it’s just a mess.”

“Hold on,” Ernie said, “it’s not as though they’re not trying. Don’t you remember that advert in the Prophet a few weeks ago?”

“Right,” Zacharias said, “they want someone who fought in the Battle to give seminars.”

“There’s nothing like a war hero to boost morale,” Justin said earnestly.

“Yeah, but they wanted a friend of Potter’s,” Zacharias said. Hardly the most inspiring choice, he would’ve thought, but there’s no accounting for taste.

“Well, that’s absurd,” Ernie said. “We’re all busy finishing our education!”

“Quite frankly, I don’t see why they don’t just get Harry to give the talks himself,” Susan said.

“He’s busy with his secret bloody Auror business,” Wayne said—he’d been quiet up until then, probably because he knew next to nothing about politics, Zacharias thought.

Susan sighed. “The whole thing is going to get out of hand soon. I wouldn’t want to be around when it happens.”

That seemed to be the final word on the subject, and they went on to talk about what their timetables might be like. Zacharias kept quiet and glanced over at the Ravenclaw table, where Anthony was very clearly relishing being Head Boy and talking to some of the newly-sorted first years.

“You’re staring,” Susan whispered, accompanying her words with a nudge.

“I turn my head in a particular direction for a few seconds, and suddenly it’s staring,” Zacharias said, almost certain that he had been doing no such thing.

“What’s going on with you two?” Wayne asked.

To her credit, Susan just shook her head at him. “Don’t worry,” she said.

When the feast ended and the Hufflepuff table drained out in the direction of their common room, Su appeared by Susan’s side.

“What are you doing here?” Justin asked, standing up a little bit straighter.

Su grinned. “Well, since Susie and I are both technically alone in our dorms, I thought I’d keep her company!”

Justin turned a very vibrant shade of pink as he glared at her, but kept walking without saying anything.

The next morning Zacharias ran into Justin, still in his pyjamas, coming down the stairs from the girls’ dorms. When their eyes met, Justin stared straight ahead. “Don’t tell a _soul_ , Zacharias.”

That day in class, Zacharias noticed two things: one, that Justin and Su seemed to be on _much_ better terms, and that Susan looked very smug indeed; two, that almost everyone left at Hogwarts had chosen to repeat a year. 

Not so Ginny Weasley.

Zacharias could see why she wanted to get out of Hogwarts as soon as possible. She was the youngest in her large family, and she had an older boyfriend. She had just finished her sixth year, so it wasn’t like she was missing any important exams by moving up to seventh year.

But on the other hand, it was a right fucking pain being the same class as her.

The first class of the day was Charms, which was unfortunately populous, with all of the seventh year students taking it. Even though it was considered the easiest N.E.W.T. course, everyone knew it was also the most useful. And if Ginny Weasley wasn’t there, they would have neatly fit two people on each desk with no-one left on their own. As it was, Ernie sat by himself, glowering at Justin and Wayne as Professor Flitwick entered the classroom.

“Welcome back,” Flitwick began, “to your eighth year at Hogwarts. Let’s start the year off with a question. Can any of you tell me what the Protean Charm does?”

Hermione’s hand shot up so fast that Anthony almost fell off his chair next to her.

“Miss Granger?”

“A Protean Charm is used to cause a duplicate of an object to mimic any changes made to the original object,” she recited.

“Very good,” Flitwick said.

“Hermione can cast a Protean Charm already,” Ginny said loudly. “She did it on our Dumbledore’s Army coins.”

“Show-off,” Tracey muttered.

“Gryffindors,” Zacharias whispered in reply, and they caught each other’s eyes and sighed.

“And what is it that you two find so interesting back there?” the Professor asked, turning his attention to Zacharias and Tracey’s desk.

“What could possibly be more interesting than Protean Charms, Professor?” Tracey said, all smiles.

“They’re jealous,” Ginny said, “because they don’t have a _hope_ of learning the Protean Charm.” Sally-Anne Perks put her hand on Ginny’s arm and whispered something, but Ginny shook her off. “I bet you don’t even know the incantation,” she continued.

“Not all of us are so keen to impress that we read ahead before every class,” Tracey shot back.

“It’s _Proteus_ ,” Zacharias said quietly. Of course, he only knew this because when Hermione had first made the Protean coins, Terry had gone on and on about how unfair it was that she could do a Protean Charm and he couldn’t, and he set about learning it for himself. But that wasn’t the point. No-one heard him, anyway.

Professor Flitwick clapped his hands together. “That’s enough of this,” he said. “We’ll be practising on feathers. You will get one per pair and duplicate it using _Geminio_ , then cast _Proteus_ on the original, and experiment with changing its colour. Miss Granger, if you’d like to demonstrate _Proteus_ to the class?”

Suitably shamed into ignorance by Hermione’s proficiency, the rest of the seventh years set about attempting to use the charm on their feathers.

“I can’t fucking stand that Weasley,” Tracey whispered, turning the duplicate feather around in her fingers. “I hope her feathers burst into flames. I hope she fails her N.E.W.T.s and has to repeat a year like the rest of us.”

“I just wish she would ignore me,” Zacharias said. “I’ve never quite understood why she hates me so much. I mean, hating you, I can understand…”

Tracey stuck her tongue out. “Love you too,” she said. “Anyway, she hates you because you hate her boyfriend, right?”

“I don’t hate Potter,” Zacharias said, “I just resent his presence in my life.”

“You were the one who chose to go to his stupid little club,” Tracey said—as if he needed reminding.

“I wasn’t even going to go,” he said. “I heard Hermione telling Ernie and Hannah about it, and I was curious, but I wasn’t really planning on sticking around.”

“So why _did_ you go, then?”

Zacharias shrugged. “Anthony was going.”

“That is _so_ romantic,” Tracey said. “Seriously, why don’t you two just—”

“ _Proteus_ ,” Zacharias said, probably a bit louder than was necessary, and flicked his wand at the feather. Tracey, ever quick on the uptake, cast _Engorgio_ on the same feather. Nothing happened.

“Aw,” she said, “I wanted a giant feather.”

“I don’t even remember which of these was the original,” Zacharias said, putting down his wand and holding up the feathers side-by-side.

“Look,” Tracey said, “Granger and Goldstein seem to have been successful.”

Zacharias shifted a bit so he could see their desk, which was lined with ten identical feathers that were intermittently changing colour. “She’s done it before, though,” he said.

“Anthony probably has too,” Tracey said. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“How’s Weasley doing?” Zacharias wondered aloud.

Tracey got a look in her eyes that Zacharias could only describe as the pure, concentrated essence of Slytherin. “Let’s go find out.”

She got up, with Zacharias following, and made her way to Anthony and Hermione’s desk. “Goldstein! You seem capable. Show us what we’re doing wrong.”

When Anthony was embarrassed, he tended to start fidgeting with his hair, which had been growing ever longer since sixth year—incidentally, Zacharias realised, around the same time as his parents had left the country—and was now sitting comfortably atop his collar. “Oh, it’s mostly Hermione’s doing,” he said, twisting a loose curl around his finger. “I’m still just a beginner at this.”

“Nonsense, Anthony,” Hermione said, “you’re doing wonderfully.”

“You should really tell Professor Flitwick if you’re having trouble, though,” Anthony said.

Tracey sighed falsely. “I don’t want to bother him,” she said. “Maybe I should ask Ginny, since she seemed so confident about it earlier.”

It was like she knew exactly how the conversation was going to go right from the beginning, Zacharias thought.

“Bad idea,” Anthony said, dropping his hand back to the table and picking up one of the feathers, which was currently a startling shade of red. But Tracey was already on the way, and Zacharias had no choice but to follow her.

Anthony glared at them, but didn’t say anything. He was always very good at being responsible, except when it came to his friends.

“What are _you_ doing here,” Ginny asked as Tracey approached.

“Look at your feathers,” Tracey said, ignoring her. “Such a beautiful pink!”

Ginny scrunched her eyebrows together. “Uh, thanks?”

“You’ve done a really good job,” Tracey continued, producing the two feathers that she and Zacharias had been trying to charm. “Could you give us a hand?”

Later, when Professor Slughorn asked Tracey why Professor Flitwick had given her a week of detentions, it was hard to explain the nature of the incident—but when she told him that a Gryffindor, five pink feathers, and a wayward Engorgement Charm had been involved, he decided it was better not to know and threatened to retire at least three times during the course of his “Behave Yourself In Class” lecture. Or at least, that’s how she told it to Zacharias.

Zacharias, meanwhile, sat in Professor Sprout’s office with a handful of Fizzing Whizzbees. He’d only been given three nights of detention because technically it had been Tracey who’d cast the Engorgement Charm, but it was still a bit embarrassing. Well, Anthony had been embarrassed on both of their behalves, because Tracey was physically incapable of feeling shame, and Zacharias just didn’t care all that much. It wasn’t _his_ nose that had been engorged.

“First day back, and you’re already getting yourself into trouble,” Professor Sprout said, shaking her head. “You’ve had a very good record in the past; what would your mother say about this?”

“She’d probably remind me what a disappointment I am,” he said, shrugging.

Professor Sprout frowned. “I remember your father, you know,” she said. “He graduated top of Herbology. Top of everything, actually. Never _once_ got into trouble. You’re the exact image of him; has anyone ever mentioned that to you?”

“Once or twice,” Zacharias said, not too happy to reminded of the way Professor Flitwick had spent his entire first year, always talking to Zacharias about how “Hector used to be able to do this so well” or “Hector wrote me a very good essay on this once.”

Pity Zacharias wasn’t as smart as his father.

“He wasn’t any good at Quidditch, though,” Sprout added. “You definitely didn’t inherit that from him.”

Zacharias shrugged again, and popped one of the Whizzbees into his mouth.

“I wanted to talk to you about Quidditch,” she said. “Since Megan’s not here, the Hufflepuff team is down a Captain. I’d like you to fill that role.”

“Oh,” Zacharias said blankly. Going back onto the Quidditch team was something he’d thought about, so he wasn’t entirely unprepared for the question, but he hadn’t expected to be offered Captaincy. He was barely responsible enough to remember to wash his robes occasionally; he’d almost certainly be rubbish at keeping six other students in line.

“What do you say?” Professor Sprout asked.

“I, er, wasn’t planning on playing Quidditch at all this year,” Zacharias said evenly. “I think I ought to focus on my studies instead. It would probably be better for the team if someone else was to lead them.”

Sprout looked surprised, but she nodded. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” he said, more to convince himself than to assure his Head of House.

The detention didn’t drag on for too long, and at nine he was released to go back to his common room and observe his curfew—although he had a suspicion that the rules were going to be very relaxed indeed for the Eighth Years.

Halfway down the staircase that led from the second floor to the Hufflepuff common room, he ran into Anthony.

“Breaking curfew, are we?” Anthony asked, grinning.

“Very funny,” Zacharias muttered. “You know that I just had detention.”

“How was it?”

“Could have been worse,” Zacharias said. “Anyway, what are you doing stalking the corridors?”

“Actually, it’s called _patrolling_ ,” Anthony said. “You know, that thing that Prefects have to do?”

“Would have thought you’re above that sort of legwork now.”

Anthony laughed, but didn’t reply. They stood on the stairs in silence for a moment, before Anthony cleared his throat. “I, uh, got a copy of the official events calendar for the year. We’ve got our first Hogsmeade weekend in five weeks. Uh, about five weeks, I think.”

Zacharias noticed that Anthony had reached his arm around to behind his head and wrapping his hair around his fingers. It was so like him to be embarrassed about forgetting an important date.

“You’d think they’d let us down to Hogsmeade whenever we want,” Zacharias said. “At least, those of us who’re of-age.”

“No, I like that it’s only occasional,” Anthony said. “Makes it more special, you know?”

“If you say so,” Zacharias said.

Anthony nodded, his lips pressed together. “So, uh, in five weeks time. Let’s do something together.”

“Alright,” Zacharias said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh,” Anthony said, looking like he’d just been put on the spot to answer a question in class, and he didn’t know the answer. “Well, I, uh, what do people usually do together in Hogsmeade? Madam Puddifoot’s?”

“Don’t be funny,” Zacharias said. “Let’s just get lunch at the Broomsticks.”

“Yeah?” Anthony said. “I mean, that’s a yes?”

“Why wouldn’t it be a yes?” Zacharias asked. “On the phone, the other day, when you mentioned that we should probably just, er, spend some time with just the two of us. This is that, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Anthony said, relaxing a bit and letting his hands swing loosely by his side. “I guess I was expecting you to be, I don’t know, a bit less calm about it.”

Zacharias wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. What was there in a Hogsmeade visit that was supposed to make him agitated?

“Anyway,” Anthony said, “I guess I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

“Unless something eats me on the way back to my dorm, I’m sure you will,” Zacharias joked.

Anthony rolled his eyes and waved, and they went in opposite directions on the staircase.

Zacharias found that the Hufflepuff common room was still busy when he got back, and in a fit of sociability he decided to join Wayne, Justin, and Ernie by the fire.

“Where’s Susan?” he asked.

Justin made a face like he was holding in a scream. “It’s her turn to sleep in the Ravenclaw dorms, apparently.”

“How was your detention?” Wayne asked.

“Fine,” Zacharias said. “Sprout’s got a stock of Fizzing Whizzbees in there, which takes the edge off a bit.”

“It was Coconut Ice when I last had detention,” Wayne said.

Zacharias briefly considered sharing the news about the first Hogsmeade visit of the year, but he held back. After all, it was still five weeks away, and this lot would only get nervous and start thinking about who they’d ask to be their bloody date, or something.

He decided it was lucky, then, that he would be spending the day with Anthony and his delightfully disdainful attitude to romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to leave you with a comment that my beta reader Taylor left on the first draft of this chapter: "Fit of sociability. Pfft, boy’s riding high."
> 
> Things start happening in the next chapter. Please do leave a comment and let me know your thoughts on the story so far! C:


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone remind me to finish chapter 10 this weekend, okay? In the mean time, have this, the chapter in which everything happens so much.

It was almost two weeks after he’d declined the position of Captain when Hufflepuff held their Quidditch tryouts. Zacharias did not attend.

He’d considered it, if briefly, on his way to Muggle Studies. When the class was over, he could just head down to the pitch and say he’d changed his mind. But he wouldn’t. It would just be a waste of time.

Tracey was already in the classroom when Zacharias and Anthony arrived from Arithmancy. Zacharias sat down at her desk, leaving Anthony to sit with Terry.

“So did you read the chapter on communism?” Tracey asked, picking up her quill.

Muggle Studies was the only course they took that had completely changed from how it was taught last year. While the Ministry was under the control of Lord Voldemort, it had been nothing but anti-Muggle propaganda, and it had been compulsory. This year they had returned to the old textbooks and the class was much emptier 

“Yeah,” Zacharias said. “I’m not looking forward to doing a whole topic on Muggle politics, though.”

“It’s pretty boring,” Tracey said, sticking the quill behind her ear. “Although nothing is quite as boring as the next chapter. We’re expected to know the history of democracy in Europe, but the book doesn’t really get past Ancient Greece. 

“You read ahead?” Given how she’d mocked Ginny Weasley for reading ahead, it seemed a bit unlikely.

“I don’t want have to do all of my studying right at the end of the year,” she said. “It’s better to start now and party later.”

Zacharias rolled his eyes. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Tracey whispered, “I heard about you and Anthony.”

“What about us?” Zacharias asked, pulling a sheaf of parchment from his bag.

“Uh, the obvious,” Tracey said, using that tone of voice she reserved for Gryffindors and thick people.

Zacharias positioned his inkwell on the corner of the desk, taking a moment to think about what she might mean. “Nothing’s coming to mind.”

Tracey sighed loudly. “Well, let’s just say he mentioned that you’re going to Hogsmeade together in October.”

“Oh,” Zacharias said, “is that all?”

She didn’t talk to him for the rest of the lesson.

They were leaving Muggle Studies when Wayne lit the match that started the fire.

“Feels a bit weird that they’re holding Quidditch tryouts without Megan,” he said to Zacharias. “And without you, I suppose.”

Tracey paused in her step. “Wait a second,” she said, “I didn’t know you weren’t trying out.”

“I’m sure I told you,” Zacharias said. “Professor Sprout asked me if I would be the Captain while I was in detention, and I—”

“You bloody well _didn’t_ tell me,” Tracey said, rounding on Zacharias so fast that her satchel almost hit Wayne in the stomach.

“It’s no big deal,” Zacharias said. “I just want to focus on my studies.”

Tracey pulled a face. “Bullshit. You don’t care that much about your N.E.W.T.s. You didn’t care last year.”

“It’s not like you would know if I did,” he said, shrugging, “since you spent all year hanging around Daphne and Millicent.”

“Alright,” Anthony said, stepping forward from where he’d been walking a few paces behind them. “What’s this all about, then?”

Tracey ignored him. “Hanging around with my _friends_?” she snapped. “Shit, why the fuck would I be doing that when I could spend time around _you_ instead?”

“What are you implying?” Zacharias asked, bordering on taking some sort of offence to her words, but willing himself not to react too strongly.

“Last year! You were the fucking life of the party, weren’t you?” she said, her voice cracking. “Always whining about bloody Dumbledore’s fucking Army, and all your stupid self-righteous friends putting you to shame and making you feel like such a _coward_ in comparison.”

The corridor had cleared out, except for Tracey and Zacharias standing perfectly still and staring at each other. Anthony stayed too, lingering to one side.

“You think I felt like a coward?” Zacharias asked, his mouth twisting into a frown. “You really think I spent the whole year wishing I was being tortured like the rest of them?”

“Ugh.” Tracey took a step backwards. “It’s in the past, okay? I don’t want to fight about it. But why the fuck aren’t you playing Quidditch this year?”

“I fucking told you,” Zacharias said, raising his voice, “I want to focus on my studies!”

He hadn’t lost his temper in a long time, not properly. It had been so long since he’d just _shouted_ at someone, and he’d forgotten how good it felt, and how bad he felt for feeling good about it.

“I don’t buy it,” Tracey said. “You always said to me that you played to be the best at Quidditch, that it was more than just fun between homework. So what gives?”

The worst part was that she was right—Zacharias had his own reasons for quitting Quidditch which had nothing at all to do with his workload, but he wasn’t sharing _those_ with anybody. And Tracey had put him in a foul mood because she wasn’t listening to what he was telling her, which just made him want to shout more.

“Just piss off, alright? It’s not that important,” he said.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Tracey said. “I’m not just going to _piss off_ on this one, because it’s fucking _important_! You can’t stop playing Quidditch, you just can’t. You’ve worked so hard for it—that’s a Hufflepuff thing, isn’t it? Hard work?”

“Maybe you’re confusing hard work with ambition,” Zacharias said, not bothering to take the cold edge off his tone. “That’s a _Slytherin_ thing.”

“Right, all Slytherins are evil. Are we really getting into this?” Tracey asked. “Because if we’re insulting each other, we should at least do it properly.”

He was angrier than he ever remembered being, and it was threatening to come to the surface—every time his father had made a crass generalisation about his house, every time one of Potter’s friends had threatened him, every time someone had made a joke at his expense—every single rude comeback he’d ever stored away when blurting it out would have gotten him punched was on the tip of his tongue, but he wasn’t ready to do it properly.

This was Tracey, after all.

“Why can’t you just leave it?” he asked. “Tracey, you’re my best fucking friend, alright? But you’re being a right arsehole about this.”

“Best fucking friends,” Tracey repeated, and Zacharias noticed for the first time that beyond the break in her voice there were tears in her eyes. He wondered how long they’d been there.

“Just leave it,” he said again.

Tracey glared at him. She shook her head. “You’re a fucking nasty piece of work, Smith,” she said. “ _You’re_ the arsehole, _you’re_ the one who’s horrible to absolutely everyone, even to me and Anthony. You can take your fucking Quidditch and stick it up your fucking arse for all I care! I just need some fucking time away from you right now.”

She turned around and walked away—she didn’t run, just placed one foot in front of the other slowly and carefully, her steps echoing down the corridor.

“Don’t follow me,” she said.

Zacharias couldn’t even move if he tried.

“Zach?”

He heard Anthony calling his name like a distant voice, as though he was at the other end of the corridor, even though he was standing right there and had heard the whole argument. That wasn’t good. It was enough of a mess without Anthony being indirectly involved.

“Zach? You’re shaking.”

“Right,” he said. “Shaking.”

“Yeah, do you want to maybe, uh, go somewhere else? Sit down for a bit?”

“You shouldn’t have stayed,” Zacharias said, almost surprised that he could form normal words after all that shouting. He turned his head to Anthony—to say he looked worried would be an understatement.

Anthony shrugged. “Someone’s got to be the neutral party.”

“You’ll take sides,” Zacharias said. “Apparently I’ve been horrible to you too.”

“You’re right, I will take sides,” Anthony said. “I’ll take your side, you know I always will.”

Zacharias almost laughed. “Tracey’s your friend too.”

“Yeah, but you’re, you know…”

“An emotionally-stunted friendship-ruining bastard arsehole, apparently,” Zacharias said.

Anthony smiled, looking away and adjusting his tie. “That too.”

Over the next couple of days, Zacharias tried to forget about it. He still saw Tracey in some of his classes, but he sat with Anthony. And in Herbology—the only class he and Anthony didn’t share—he worked with Wayne, who was an adequate substitute for a friend. He ate at the Hufflepuff table (when he remembered that he needed to eat) and sat with his back to the Slytherins. That way, he could pretend that Daphne and Millicent weren’t giving him death-glares.

It was easy to slip into the routine.

By dinner on Friday night, he was almost in a good mood when Professor McGonagall stood to make an announcement.

“As you are no doubt aware, we have two guests from the Ministry of Magic visiting Hogwarts,” she said. Zacharias hadn’t actually noticed them, but when he looked more carefully he saw an unfamiliar man and woman squeezed in at the end of the staff table, both of whom looked to be in their late thirties.

“After dinner, we will be asking all seventh years to remain in the Great Hall for a short meeting,” McGonagall continued. “That is all; you may resume your meal.”

“What do you suppose that’s all about?” Wayne asked Susan.

“Well don’t ask me,” she said. “I haven’t spoken to anyone in the Ministry for weeks.”

“I’m sure it’s something to do with the N.E.W.T.s,” Ernie said with such an air of finality that no-one dared discuss other possibilities.

The meal ended, the younger students left the Hall, and Professor McGonagall waved her wand and rearranged the area so that the student tables sat at the edges and twenty-one chairs were scattered in front of the staff table. Everyone seemed to be expecting her to say something, but the man from the Ministry stood up instead and cleared his throat.

“Evening, seventh years,” he began. “I’m Timothy Linwood, but you can call me Tim. I’m from the Ministry’s new Department of Public Relations, and I hear you asking, ‘But why is it _new_ , Tim? Surely the Ministry has always had a Department of Public Relations?’”

He paused, and a few of the seventh years glanced at one another with raised eyebrows.

“Well, we have,” Linwood continued. “But in the wake of the disastrous war, the Ministry is recovering from being run by Death Eaters, and that’s a pretty bad reputation that we have to clean up. So Minister Shacklebolt has reformed the Department of Public Relations, and it’s now our mission to educate the Wizarding community and keep them up-to-date with all of the developments in our recovery.”

“What a twat,” Anthony whispered, leaning over to Zacharias.

“I bet he was a Gryffindor,” Zacharias said.

“You might have seen our advert in the Daily Prophet,” Linwood said. “We’re looking for a spokesperson, someone to give talks and seminars and liaise with the media. We want a good speaker, someone outgoing, who can talk without a script—and that’s why we’re here. We want someone who was present at the Battle, who knew Harry Potter, to add their experiences to the profession.”

“Why don’t you just ask Harry Potter, then?” Draco called out, echoing Susan’s earlier sentiments. A couple of people muttered in agreement. Zacharias didn’t look over to where the Slytherins were sitting to see if Tracey was one of them.

Linwood sighed like he was asked that a lot. “As some of you might be aware, Harry Potter is working with the Aurors to help apprehend Death Eaters. And he would carry a long history with him into a job like this—we want a fresh face on our team, someone who would bring a whole new perspective to our Department. None of us were at the defining Battle of Hogwarts, unfortunately, so we don’t have the right background.”

“And what makes you think that any of us will give up on our education to work for you?” Ernie asked.

“Ah,” Linwood said, his lips curling into a smile. “I won’t lie to you. There are only two things you’ll get out of this job: the sense of satisfaction that you’ve helped the British Wizarding community come to terms with its recovery from a war, and money. If you’re the sort of person who sits in class twiddling your thumbs and yearning for an experience, this may be the job for you!”

His declamatory pronunciation was met with silence.

“You don’t need to make your minds up now,” he said. “My colleague and I will be here for the next two days, so you’ll have some time to think it over. We’ll be at the staff table during your mealtimes, so do come up and talk to us if you have any questions.”

Zacharias hadn’t done anything properly impulsive for a long time. As everyone turned to leave the Great Hall, he stayed.

“I’m going to talk to them about the job,” he said to Anthony.

Anthony paused in his step. “Well, I know you were interested when we first read about it,” he said, “but I really wish you wouldn’t.”

Zacharias sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Anthony, I’m—I’m nothing special, you know? I’m not going to get out of Hogwarts and walk straight into a job. I could use this opportunity.”

“You sound like Tracey,” Anthony said a little bit sadly.

“But you’re not going to stop talking to me if I try for this,” Zacharias said.

“No, I’m not,” Anthony said. “And, uh, if you leave Hogwarts and all that, I’ll miss you, but, uh, if you feel that this is the right thing for you, then I mean, of course, by all means, do what you think is right.”

“Only with your blessing,” Zacharias joked.

Anthony laughed. “Good luck, then.”

 Linwood saw Zacharias approaching him and immediately his expression changed from neutral to a winning smile. “Hello,” he said, “come to ask about the job?”

“I’d like to put forward an expression of interest,” Zacharias said.

“You’re tall,” Linwood said. “I like that. Makes you stand out in a crowd. Tell us a little bit about yourself.”

The woman from the Ministry who hadn’t been introduced was staring at Zacharias. She hadn’t said a word yet, which was more than a little sinister. He tried not to focus how uneasy she made him, or on Linwood’s uncomfortably flippant attitude.

“I’m Zacharias Smith,” he said. “I’m in Hufflepuff, and I didn’t fight at the Battle of Hogwarts, and I’m not on good terms with Harry Potter.”

Linwood’s jaw hung loose for a moment, before he composed himself. “That’s very nice of you to be so honest about it, but what exactly do you think you can bring to this job?”

Without missing a beat, Zacharias smiled. “Honest? On the contrary,” he said. “I’m an excellent liar.”

The woman standing with Linwood grinned. “You may have some promise yet,” she said.

“Tell me, Zacharias,” Linwood said, “have you had much experience with public speaking?”

“Some,” Zacharias lied. “Mainly in class.”

“And are you a Prefect?”

“I was for an evening,” Zacharias said. “Strictly unofficial, but I like to think I did a good job of it.”

Linwood nodded, frowning. “And do you have much experience with office work—filing, sorting, that kind of thing?”

“I’ve done a lot of office work for my father,” Zacharias said, another lie.

“Oh? What does your father do?” Linwood asked.

“He’s a lecturer at a Muggle university,” Zacharias said.

That answer seemed to please Linwood. “So I take it you’re Muggleborn?”

“Half-blood,” Zacharias corrected. “Not that it matters.”

“We can work with this,” the woman said. “We can definitely work with this.”

Zacharias was singularly unimpressed at being referred to as “this”, but he kept it to himself. It wouldn’t do to quibble when things were looking promising.

“Tell you what,” Linwood said, “if we don’t have any other offers by the end of tomorrow, from people who actually fought in the Battle, it’s all yours.”

“I wish you luck in finding a better candidate for the position,” Zacharias said, the significance of the situation beginning to sink in. This was _happening_.

“No, let’s just give it to him now,” the woman said. “I like his attitude.”

“Lucretia, no,” Linwood said. “We have to give it at _least_ a day; that’s what we told the rest of the students.”

Lucretia gave him a look but didn’t say anything.

They gave it a day.

Zacharias was surprised at how nervous the wait made him. He couldn’t talk about it to anyone, because they’d try to put him off, or remind him that he wasn’t exactly what the Ministry had been looking for. But he couldn’t cope with the uncertainty, and he could barely pay attention in class.

All through dinner that evening he had to stop himself from glancing at Linwood and Lucretia—he still didn’t know her surname—sitting at the staff table. If he looked, it would be too obvious, and he didn’t want to give them that sort of impression.

As the crowd in the Great Hall began to thin out, Lucretia approached him at the Hufflepuff table. Wayne and Ernie gave her wary looks, but Justin and Susan stared in open fascination.

“It’s been a long time since I sat here,” Lucretia said, looking at the bench as though she thought it might somehow stop her from sitting down.

“You were in Hufflepuff?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “The only worthwhile house, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Obviously,” Zacharias said.

Lucretia nodded. “I just came to tell you that the job is yours. Timothy and I have agreed that you’re more than suitable. We’ve spoken to your Headmistress and Head of House, and we’ll make all of the necessary arrangements tomorrow.”

Zacharias’ housemates were silent for all of a second before Ernie banged his fist on the table. “Well that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” he said.

“So you’re just going to _leave_?” Wayne asked, frowning.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Susan said. The annoyance in her voice did not go unnoticed by Zacharias, and he glanced over his shoulder to watch Lucretia walking away, leaving him at the mercy of four very curious Hufflepuffs.

“What have you got to say for yourself?” Ernie demanded. “Did you lie to them about fighting in the Battle?”

“No,” Zacharias said, “I told them quite unequivocally that I didn’t.”

“So how did you get the job?” Justin asked.

“I spoke to them about it, and they said that they considered me a good candidate,” Zacharias said.

“I can’t believe this,” Susan said. “It’s going to be so strange with you gone.”

“Look at it this way,” Zacharias said, “at least no-one will be sitting alone in Charms.”

After they had finished quizzing Zacharias, his next task was to tell Anthony. Unfortunately, that also meant telling Michael, Terry, and Su at the same time.

“I got the job,” he said, sitting down at the Ravenclaw table.

“What job?” Michael asked. “Should we be happy for you?”

“The Ministry job, you idiot,” Su said. “Right?”

“Right,” Zacharias said. “I know it’s sudden, but—”

“Damn right it’s sudden,” Michael said, glaring at Zacharias. “Have you and Anthony talked about this?”

“We have,” Anthony said, “so don’t ask.”

“It’ll be hard for you two, won’t it?” Su said.

“We probably shouldn’t talk about that,” Terry said, quietly enough that it was just intended for Su, but Zacharias heard him clearly enough.

“So will you be travelling from Scotland every day?” Su asked, changing the subject. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too hard if you could Apparate, but you and I were both too young for the lessons, right?”

“Fuck,” Zacharias said. “I actually… hadn’t thought about that.”

He suddenly felt like he hadn’t thought about a _lot_ of things. If he couldn’t get to London, he couldn’t do the job, and that wouldn’t be any bloody good. He could conceivably Confund a Muggle into letting him move into a flat without paying any rent, but that was the sort of thing he really didn’t want to have to resort to.

“You can stay in my flat,” Anthony said. “That is, if you don’t mind getting from Golders Green to Westminster every day. It’s certainly a lot closer than Scotland.”

Zacharias was so surprised that he didn’t reply for a few moments. “If you don’t mind—”

“Of course not,” Anthony said. “I’ll give you my keys tomorrow morning, and you’ll have to let me in when I come home for the holidays. Are you leaving tomorrow?”                                                           

“Something like that,” Zacharias said.

It was all happening so quickly. Two days ago, Zacharias hadn’t even been thinking beyond studying a lot and sitting the N.E.W.T.s. Now he had a job, and he was moving to London, and leaving Hogwarts for good. He hadn’t even told his parents.

He tried to reassure himself that he wasn’t really leaving anything behind, except Anthony and maybe Susan and a couple of other people he might have cared about. And after dinner, a few of his Professors came up to him to offer their condolences, carefully disguised as congratulations, and Professor Sprout even hugged him.

He barely slept that night.

And then the next day he was leaving, and he spent the morning emptying his trunk and his bedside drawers and packing his bag. It felt a bit wrong, leaving Hogwarts while everyone else was staying—but then, that’s what so many people had done after the Battle of Hogwarts. It wouldn’t be any different for him when the school year had barely begun, even if it was sudden. It was for the best.

The only person who came to see him off was Anthony. Linwood and Lucretia were waiting for Zacharias in the Entrance Hall so that they could walk to Hogsmeade and Apparate. Zacharias reasoned that they wouldn’t be too worried if he spent a bit of time saying his goodbyes before joining them.

“Still can’t quite get my head around it,” Anthony said.

“I’ll write to you,” Zacharias said.

“You’d better make bloody well sure that you do,” Anthony said. “I’ll be expecting frequent missives updating me on your job and the condition of my flat.”

“It’s not like I’m going to throw a party every night and wreck the place,” Zacharias said.

“No, I doubt you’ll even make any friends at the Ministry. They’ll all hate you within a week.”

“Obviously,” Zacharias said. He paused. “Say goodbye to Tracey for me, alright? Tell her I’m sorry, or something.”

“Of course.” Anthony reached forward and wrapped each of his hands around Zacharias’ wrists. “I’ll miss you. Uh, I think I’ve said that already, haven’t I?”

“Yeah,” Zacharias said. He couldn’t bring himself to say something emotional, because he knew that he would regret his decision the moment he did. He reminded himself that the Ministry job was the right thing for him.

“My only regret is that we’ll miss our Hogsmeade date,” Anthony said.

Zacharias took a moment to process that. Anthony had _definitely_ just used the word date. But he didn’t mean it like that, right? This was Anthony, after all: Anthony “I couldn’t give a damn about all of this petty teenage romance” Goldstein—his exact words.

“I’ll take you out for dinner when you’re in London for Christmas,” Zacharias said, hoping he sounded more like he was joking and less like he was panicking. He was panicking.

And in the grand tradition of the last few days, everything happened at once.

Anthony pushed himself upwards so that he was standing on his toes and leaned forward and pressed his lips to Zacharias’, and Zacharias almost fell backwards out of shock, his eyes wide—only Anthony’s grip on his wrists stopped him from overbalancing completely and hitting the ground. It felt like every nerve in his body was being triggered at once, and like someone had just told him that everything he ever knew was wrong, _so_ wrong, and all of his history was being rewritten, and somehow, it made perfect sense.

After a few moments of exhilarating confusion, Anthony pulled away, but kept his hands tight around Zacharias’ wrists.

Zacharias felt disoriented, like when Ginny had punched him or Tracey had walked away from him, but this was a better kind of dizzy. He felt like he needed to say something.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Anthony said. “Uh, you’d better head off, so, uh, write to me, and I’ll… see you in December… ?”

Zacharias kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do leave a comment! I had a fair few issues with pacing and the like in this chapter, and I made it purposefully fast-paced, so I'd love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Also, yes. All of that very much did just happen. Thoughts on relationship development of all sorts (because Tracey is _so_ important) are also appreciated!
> 
> And now I guess I can reveal that the whole reason I wrote this story was as a form of perverse wish-fulfillment with my years-old headcanon that Zacharias grows up to be a sort of Malcolm Tucker figure in the Ministry. We're on our way, kids. We're on our way.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Closure! (Sort of)

Back in his sixth year, Zacharias had heard all about Apparition from his housemates lucky enough to have early birthdays. He had to listen to Megan going on and on about how great it was, and to Susan vehemently disagreeing after she’d violently Splinched herself. After a while it started to get on his nerves, so for the rest of the year he tuned out any discussion of Apparition. He tried not to get too annoyed when the lessons were cancelled in his seventh year, or whenever someone mentioned the fact that he didn’t have his license.

The first time Zacharias Apparated, he was standing in Hogsmeade and clinging to Lucretia’s arm perhaps a bit more tightly than was necessary for Side-Along Apparition. His nerves were already a mess, to the extent that he couldn’t quite remember why he had been standing in a corridor one minute and in Hogsmeade the next, so he wasn’t exactly in the right state of mind to disappear and immediately reappear in central London.

It felt like he was being lifted off the ground and compressed into a very small space. When he landed on his feet in a busy street, surrounded by people in suits who seemed to have no idea that he was there, he steadied himself on a lamp post and threw up on the pavement.

“Disgusting,” Lucretia said, pulling out her wand and casting a quick _Scourgify_.

“Sorry,” Zacharias croaked. “That was—”

“It’s alright,” Linwood said. “The first time is never easy.”

Zacharias was beginning to regret even mentioning to them that he had never Apparated before. They could have Apparated, and maybe he could have claimed that he wasn’t very good at it and taken the train. As it was, Linwood had insisted on taking him Side-Along, and Zacharias had in turn insisted that he go with Lucretia. Of the two, she seemed to have more of a handle on reality.

“Where are you staying?” Lucretia asked, pocketing her wand. “I can Apparate you there.”

“It won’t be quite so bad the second time,” Linwood added.

“Golders Green,” Zacharias said, ignoring Linwood. “And I’ll take the tube.”

Lucretia showed him to Embankment; Linwood left him with directions to the Ministry and a promise that Zacharias would be there at nine sharp the next morning, armed with his birth certificate and the access coin they’d given him.

It felt like a long ride. He passed it by memorising the stops, and tried not to think about his argument with Tracey when the train pulled into Camden Town.

Anthony’s flat was easy enough to find from Golders Green station, but it was a bit of a walk. Zacharias passed a Synagogue on his way, which reminded him of how Anthony had complained that the flat was turning him into “a Jewish stereotype”—but as his parents had apparently told him again and again, it was less obvious that he was living on his own if he only moved around the corner from where they’d lived before.

The building was unassuming and suburban. When Zacharias opened the door, it was clear that the flat’s only occupant was a lazy teenage boy. There was very little furniture except a couch in the middle of the living room and a television set that had definitely been in the family for at least ten years. Zacharias unshrinked his suitcase and lugged it into the bedroom. The bed had plain white sheets which looked like they’d been made up in a hurry, and there were Muggle novels stacked on the bedside table, which was just typical Anthony.

It occurred to Zacharias that he would be sleeping in Anthony’s bed. Anthony, who he’d kissed.

Zacharias sat down on the bed and tried to make a little more sense of his thoughts. Putting the pieces together, he could trace the issue back to Susan and Tracey and _everyone_ assuming that he and Anthony were destined for some sort of relationship. This had somehow culminated in Anthony asking him out. The fact that he had said yes without even realising what he was agreeing to was a new sort of embarrassment, and it made his head hurt when he so much as _thought_ about thinking about it.

Several things were clearer in hindsight, like Tracey so insistently mentioning that she’d heard about him and Anthony—which led to the realisation that actually, Anthony had probably been quite excited about their date, and had probably told quite a few people. And that just made Zacharias feel like even more of an arsehole for not working it out.

But on the bright side, the kissing had been pretty great.

The more Zacharias thought about it, the more he realised that he’d never actually contemplated kissing at all. He wasn’t even sure if he’d ever seen two people kiss one another.

Of course, there was a more important question which he had been steadfastly ignoring: did he even fancy Anthony? Zacharias had always just presumed that he would never have those sort of emotions. Relationships were something that happened to other people, not to him. And he’d assumed that Anthony shared that attitude, but clearly Anthony liked him enough to, well, do all of _that_.

Zacharias stared at the doorframe in front of him and sighed. He was slowly returning to reality, and there was something gnawing at him, something he felt like he’d forgotten to do.

It was late afternoon, and since Zacharias had left the contents of his stomach on a pavement somewhere in the city, he decided to locate the fridge and see what he could put together for dinner. He slowly pulled himself up from the bed and found the kitchen, just to the side of the living room.

The fridge was almost empty. There was half an apple in the crisper and a slice of Battenberg cake which had definitely seen better days on the bottom shelf. The shelves on the door held an assortment of condiments: a half-finished jar of mustard that was congealing on the edge of its lid, mayonnaise with no visible best-before date, and a bottle of sweet chilli sauce that looked as though it had never so much as been touched. There was also a jar that had ostensibly once contained pickles—now it was just brine and some floating sprigs of dill.

Zacharias hoped for better in the freezer, and he wasn’t disappointed. There were a few Waitrose microwave dinners, and even though a disappointingly large number of them contained some sort of meat, there was a vegetable lasagne that would do for dinner. He could easily restock the next day; maybe on his way home from the Ministry.

The lasagne had forty-three seconds left on the timer when Zacharias realised what he’d forgotten to do. He ate quickly, forcing himself to finish before picking up the phone. He dialled the number of his father’s house.

“Who is it?”

Dr. Smith never had been good at answering the phone.

“It’s Zacharias,” he said.

“I’m almost certain that telephones don’t work at Hogwarts,” Dr. Smith said. “Although even if they did, I confess I am at a loss as to why you would phone me.”

“Don’t worry, the status quo remains as ever,” Zacharias said.  “Except I’m not at Hogwarts.”

If Dr. Smith was surprised, he didn’t express it verbally. “I suppose I should ask what the circumstances are.”

“I’ve got a job,” Zacharias said, standing a little straighter. “At the Ministry, in London.”

Zacharias heard the muffled sound of laughter from the other end. “A job? What sort of job hires someone without their N.E.W.T.s in the middle of the school year?”

“It’s public relations,” Zacharias said, ignoring the jab at the abandonment of his academics. He decided not to elaborate. His father could make of that what he would.

“And dare I ask where they’re housing you?”

“ _They’re_ not housing me anywhere,” Zacharias said. “I’m staying at a friend’s flat.”

“I wasn’t aware you had friends in London,” Dr. Smith said. It was stupid, Zacharias thought, because he had very clearly told his father about staying at Tracey’s last time he’d been there. Then again, he probably hadn’t been listening.

“Anthony’s still at Hogwarts,” Zacharias said, hoping it would make his father feel a bit daft for even questioning him, “and he lives alone, so he’s let me stay at his flat for my job.”

“You’ve never mentioned an Anthony before,” Dr. Smith said.

Zacharias never mentioned much to his father at all. “Anthony’s my,”— _boyfriend?_ —“oldest friend.”

“I hope he’s not too old,” Dr. Smith said.

“He’s eighteen,” Zacharias said, narrowing his eyes. Had his father been trying to make a joke?

There was a pause, and Zacharias imagined his father nodding to himself. “Then I have no reasonable objections. I hope for your sake that the job goes well.”

Zacharias recognised an ending when he saw one. “Thanks,” he said.

His father made a noise that sounded like “goodbye” and hung up.

Zacharias put down the phone slowly and looked across at the door to the bedroom.

He tried the words “Anthony’s my boyfriend” aloud to see how they felt. He frowned. “Maybe.”

Zacharias went to bed early. He felt a sense of obligation to put his best foot forward on his first day of the job, and since Megan always went on about how he never got enough sleep, he thought it might be something to try to turn the lights out at ten.

It didn’t work.

Seven a.m. saw Zacharias throwing Anthony’s alarm at the wall, followed by the kind of guilt that you only feel when you ruin something that belongs to someone else. He cast _Reparo_ and tried to forget about it.

The tube was packed, but Zacharias couldn’t exactly Apparate straight into the Ministry’s Atrium. Of course, Linwood had talked him through the directions soon before they’d left from Hogsmeade; that didn’t make it any easier. There was meant to be a red phone booth that doubled as a lift, but Zacharias counted at least five booths on the street. The other option was using the coin he’d been given to access the underground toilets, which were clearly signposted.

Zacharias felt he was ever so slightly _above_ flushing himself down a toilet on his first day of work, so he dialled 62442 in each phone booth until he found the one that led down to the ministry—given his luck, he wasn’t surprised that it was the fifth one.

It was a long ride down to the Ministry, and the lift clattered to a halt when it reached the Atrium. It was a large, open space with a dark wooden floor and walls lined with fireplaces, flashing intermittently green with Floo powder. It was crowded, and while Zacharias was sure that Lucretia and Linwood were there somewhere, his attention was immediately diverted by the statue at the other end of the Atrium.

He’d heard from Susan about the Fountain of Magical Brethren, which was a stupid name for a gilded monument to Wizardkind’s supremacy over what the Ministry had once considered “lesser beings,” back when it was still acceptable to say that sort of thing, whispered behind your hand just in case there were progressives listening. He’d also heard about its replacement, a black stone statue bearing the inscription “MAGIC IS MIGHT” at the base, sending the same message as the old fountain—it was with less quiet superiority, more barefaced fascism.

The statue was not what he expected. The wizard and witch remained enthroned on a pedestal of writhing bodies, but each wore a garish hat—the wizard’s, a stereotypical felt Leprechaun hat, and the witch’s a purple, feathered tricorn. Someone had crudely charmed a wilting rose to sit between the wizard’s teeth, and the witch had been given bright red lipstick. Draped over both of their shoulders were multicoloured capes and paper streamers. The streamers continued down the statue, conveniently covering the naked bodies, and a few of the bodies were even sporting glittering party hats. And where once had presumably been the words “MAGIC IS MIGHT”, it now read “NEVER FORGET.”

Linwood approached from the side. “Admiring the statue, are you?”

Zacharias was having a hard time forming words. “It’s grotesque,” he said.

“Ministry humour,” Linwood said, chuckling to himself. “You should have seen it a few days ago—someone charmed it to say ‘FUCK VOLDEMORT.’ Of course, they had to change it after the visiting American Minister for International Magical Co-operation nearly fainted when he saw it.”

“Where’s Lucretia?” Zacharias asked, changing the topic as quickly as he could. That statue was going to be in his nightmares for the next few weeks.

“In her office,” Linwood said. “The Chief of Staff doesn’t just come down here for anyone.”

Zacharias had been completely unaware that she was the Ministry’s Chief of Staff, but he acted like he wasn’t surprised. “So that’s where we’re going?”

“You’ll have your own desk in the PR workroom,” Linwood said. “But, yes, we’ll first stop off at her office.”

Linwood set off towards the statue, beyond which were grand golden gates. There were lifts to each floor, but first they needed to pass the reception desk. Zacharias had been given the access coin, but that meant nothing until he was registered as an employee.

“This one’s on his first day on the job. He’ll need a staff pass.”

Zacharias noted that Linwood didn’t bother introducing either of them to the guard on duty. He wondered if maybe the guard already knew who they were, or if Linwood was just a bit rude—for which, naturally, Zacharias would hardly be able to judge him.

“Birth certificate, please,” the guard said, her accent uncannily like that of Zacharias’ erstwhile violin teacher—his mother’s friend, and one of the only teachers in Glasgow who’d take a three-year-old with over-ambitious parents. Zacharias handed the certificate to her, and she grinned. “You’re from Glasgow!” she said. “We need more Scots in the Ministry.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he forced a smile.

The guard waved her wand over a blank plastic rectangle, and Zacharias tried not to stare too openly as his details appeared on it. She slipped the pass into a clear plastic case with a clip on the end.

“You can pin this to your robes,” she said, even though Zacharias was wearing Muggle clothes. He’d wanted to be inconspicuous on the tube, but all it did was make him stick out in the Ministry. He made a mental note to bring a bag tomorrow, somewhere to keep his one pair of half-decent robes, and he could change into them in the entrance toilets.

And he’d have to go shopping—effectively living as a Muggle when he wasn’t at Hogwarts meant that Zacharias owned more Muggle technology than he ever had robes.

“Finn just past the gates will take a picture and transfer it onto your pass,” the guard continued. “And you can find me here most mornings if you ever get lost. Ask for Helen if I’m not here. That’s me, by the way.”

Zacharias clipped the pass to his trouser pocket. “Thanks.”

Helen cheerfully waved at him as he went through the gates—Zacharias was glad to have someone on his side so soon.

“No need to ask her for help,” Linwood said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And don’t get any ideas. She’s nice, but she’s married.”

Zacharias wasn’t used to people like Linwood, but he couldn’t quite place why he found the man so bloody disconcerting. He spluttered around an indignant answer before settling on telling Linwood that he had a girlfriend already.

Linwood nodded. “That’s good. Gives you something to talk about at parties. What’s her name?”

“Antonia,” Zacharias said, frowning in annoyance as the word left his mouth. If he kept up like this, he thought he might start believing that he really _did_ have a girlfriend named Antonia, as opposed to a convenient excuse for the question marks that constituted almost every thought he’d ever had about romance.

They reached Finn with the camera, and he cast a dirty look at Zacharias’ knitted jumper. As a result, when Zacharias looked back at himself in the photograph, he was rolling his eyes.

Zacharias hadn’t seen magical photographs until his first visit to Diagon Alley, and it had taken him a long time to get used to them. He still wasn’t comfortable with watching his own face move on paper, and avoided being photographed where possible. At least if the pass was pinned by his side he wouldn’t have to look at it.

“It’s such a tedious process, isn’t it?” Linwood asked as they walked to the lifts. Zacharias didn’t reply.

There was a crowd milling about the lifts, and one arrived soon enough. Zacharias and Linwood packed in with five other witches and wizards, all of them in robes, and all of them giving Zacharias surreptitious and disapproving glances. They shared the lift with a flurry of charmed paper aeroplanes, flitting about in an almost anxious manner.

“What are these?” Zacharias asked quietly, pinching one of the planes between his fingers. He was tall enough that most of them were too close to his eyes for comfort.

“Interdepartmental memos,” Linwood said. “It’s a very efficient system.”

The lift stopped on Level Seven to let one person out, and in his place two more entered. “We’re up on Level One,” Linwood explained. “You’ve got the Minister’s office, and all of his assistants and what have you, as well as Public Relations and Personnel Management.”

“And the other levels?” Zacharias asked. There were at least eight, and he’d be a liar if he pretended he wasn’t curious.

Linwood waved his hand dismissively. “You’ll find your way around in no time.”

“Thanks,” Zacharias muttered.

The lift made it to Level One, and a flurry of memos followed Zacharias out into the corridor, buzzing insistently about his head.

“Lucretia’s office is just around the corner,” Linwood said, leading Zacharias towards a wooden door with “CHIEF OF STAFF” written in gold leaf, and below it “L. HORNER.”

Linwood didn’t knock, just swung the door open. “Morning, Lucretia.”

“Timothy,” she said, not looking at Zacharias, “ _what_ is that boy wearing?”

“I believe Muggles call it a _jumper_ ,” Linwood said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Very funny,” Lucretia said. “Take him to Diagon Alley at lunch, buy him some proper robes and dock it from your department’s budget.”

Zacharias cleared his throat.

Lucretia’s gaze fell on him, and Zacharias forgot whatever it was he had been about to say. “Yes, Smith?”

“Er, is there a particular colour I ought to be wearing?” he asked.

“Well, you’d look awful in yellow or orange,” Lucretia said, “but otherwise the choice is yours.”

Zacharias did not mention that his Hufflepuff Quidditch robes had been a shade of yellow that was a little bit too close to the colour of his hair, but that he’d borne it with dignity. With any luck, Madam Malkin’s would stock some plain black fabric.

“Sit down,” Lucretia said, gesturing to the sole chair in front of her desk. “Not you, Timothy.”

Hesitantly, Zacharias stepped forward and pulled the chair out from under her table. He sat down with the distinct feeling that he was being studied from behind.

“Between last night and this morning, there have been a couple of changes to your job description,” Lucretia said. “You’ll still be given the seminars as planned, but Timothy and I have been looking into giving you extra duties to match your unique skill set.”

“You’ll be working more closely with my PR team than previously planned,” Linwood said, walking towards him and sitting on the edge of Lucretia’s desk.

“Part of your job will involve liaising with the Daily Prophet on stories that they’re set to run about the Ministry,” Lucretia said. “We don’t want anything damaging to find its way into print, you understand. Along with the rest of the team, you will have to know everything about everyone, and know how to suppress information with the right word in the right ear.”

Zacharias bit his lip. “You’re asking me to—”

“Make no mistake,” Lucretia interrupted, “you’re still a trainee, and your main focus is still giving seminars to staff members about the war and our recovery effort. These seminars will be a good opportunity to network. But they can’t continue forever. Timothy and I think you’re a valuable employee, Zacharias. When your work with the seminars is done, we’ll evaluate your performance and consider integrating you into the PR team as a permanent employee.”

“Speaking of,” Linwood said, “I should show Zach his desk and get him introduced to the team.”

“Please don’t call me Zach,” Zacharias said. His words were lost behind the scraping of Lucretia’s chair as she stood up to show him and Linwood out of her office.

The PR team’s workroom was actually a large office, with four desks stationed so that there were two on either side of the room, two rows facing each other. Three of the desks were occupied, and the fourth—right-hand side, closest to the door—would be for Zacharias.

“Team! This is Zacharias Smith. He’ll be giving the recovery seminars that we talked about.”

On the desk next to Zacharias was Celia Xu, a twenty-something with rainbow-dyed hair who was enthusiastic to talk to Zacharias about their mutual experience of playing as a Chaser for Hufflepuff. Across the way was Maurene Selwyn, a woman who claimed to have been working in the Department of Public Relations long before Minister Shacklebolt was born, and Thaddeus Kravitz, who was unassuming to the extent that Zacharias was ready to assume that he had some sort of perverse hobby that required a quiet exterior to remain a secret.

Zacharias didn’t spend enough time in the PR workroom to get to know his colleagues properly before Linwood whisked him away to Madam Malkin’s to get fitted for robes. Zacharias insisted on five identical black robes, but Linwood told him that he would get five different styles or he’d get nothing.

While Madam Malkin fussed about him with a tape measure, Zacharias was struck by the realisation that he resented having to wear robes, and that his life would be much easier if Wizards just dressed like Muggles.

Thankfully, Madam Malkin finished her measurements quickly enough. “They’ll be ready by this afternoon,” she said. “Shall I have them delivered straight to the Ministry?”

“Yes, that’ll do nicely,” Linwood said. “Charge it to the Department of Public Relations.” He turned to Zacharias. “We’ll head back to the Ministry and I’ll show you how to find the cafeteria, and then I expect Lucretia will have assigned you some work for the afternoon.”

A few minutes later, Zacharias and Linwood were standing outside a pub in Southwark. They had Apparated, and while Zacharias hadn’t thrown up on the pavement yet, he felt a bit too queasy to be contemplating pub food.

“I thought you were taking me to the Ministry cafeteria,” Zacharias said, coughing.

“Ministry humour,” Linwood said with a shrug. “We call it the cafeteria, but it’s really just the closest Wizarding pub.”

Linwood ordered a mug of butterbeer with his fish and chips; Zacharias ordered a glass of water.

“You can’t just have water for lunch,” Linwood said. “Try their samosas, at least.”

Zacharias glared at him. “You sound like my parents.”

“Oh,” Linwood said, “that’s not very cool of me. Alright, have what you want.”

“I’m _so_ glad I have your permission,” Zacharias said, rolling his eyes.

Linwood frowned. “No need to get snippy with me—I am your boss, after all.”

Zacharias didn’t reply. Linwood and Lucretia were looking to permanently integrate him into the PR team, but he was sick of Linwood already.

“One more thing,” Linwood said. “When we get back, I presume you’ll start planning for your first seminar.”

“I presume so,” Zacharias said.

Linwood nodded and hummed to himself. “There’s something else I need you to work on. Your accent is a bit, uh, _regional_. Any chance you could make it a bit more London when you’re speaking in front of a crowd?”

Zacharias raised his eyebrows. “I can try,” he said, suddenly very aware of every Scottish inflection in his speech.

“Good,” Linwood said. “I have a feeling you’re going to be damn good at this job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given that this story has just taken a huge leap off the Plot Train and landed in Something Completely Different, I'd love to hear your thoughts! C:
> 
> (I'm now in a rather dangerous place: I've only got chapter 10 after this written, and the very beginning of 11. But I'll be on holiday soon enough, so I can hopefully get ahead. I'm trying to keep this fic regular, unlike all my other stuff, haha.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So essentially, this is the first time I'm posting a chapter without having the next one written, but it's been a month. I'm sure I won't regret this, haha. Anyway, I enjoyed writing this chapter a lot so I hope you enjoy it too!

“Good afternoon.”

“No, say it again!”

Zacharias sighed into the phone. “Good after _noon_ , Megan.”

“Wrong!” Megan shouted. “Say it again.”

“I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong,” Zacharias said. “Good afternoon, good afternoon, good—”

Megan made an unintelligible sound of annoyance. “You’re saying it like _aft_ ; you need to say _aahft_.”

Zacharias had spent the last half hour making his very Scottish “oo” into a posh, rounded vowel with some degree of success. Privately, he was starting to regret asking Megan for help—he might just end up sounding Welsh.

“Say it again,” Megan prompted.

“Good _aah_ fternoon,” Zacharias said, slowly and clearly. “Fuck, I sound like fucking Justin.”

“Say fuck like Justin would say fuck,” Megan said.

“Justin wouldn’t say fuck,” Zacharias said. “He’d say _‘oh, fiddlesticks_. _’_ ”

Zacharias heard Megan slapping a hand on her thigh. “That’s the accent! Say that again!”

“I’m not saying that again,” Zacharias said. “Ever.”

“Let me change my approach,” Megan said. “Say good afternoon like Justin would say good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon?” Zacharias tried.

“Better.”

At this rate, Zacharias’ accent would be a messy embarrassment when he gave his first seminar on Wednesday. When he’d agreed to Linwood’s proposal that he make his accent “a bit more London,” he hadn’t realised just how hard it would be. And he had a sneaking suspicion that most people in London didn’t actually sound like Justin.

Zacharias had been trying very hard to make everything about himself “a bit more London” in some vain hope that it would help with the accent. After his second day at the Ministry, he’d walked up Charing Cross Road to get a handle on the city’s geography and ended up going home with a pair of trainers and a tracksuit. In hindsight, the trainers would have been useful at the time, because soon after buying them he’d lost track of the time and accidentally walked all the way to Camden—he only realised how much time had passed when he saw the station clock reading half-nine.

Really, he’d bought them so he could get up at six and go for a run in the park. He’d built up a routine, and after an hour of running he went to a café near Anthony’s flat and had a cup of tea for breakfast. If he was feeling particularly adventurous, he might also get a croissant. Then it was off to the Ministry—he’d wear Muggle clothes on the tube and get changed in one of the Ministry toilets. The toilets were the best option short of Apparition or Floo powder, and since he had access to neither, it was all he could do to suffer the indignity.

Another part of his London Routine was writing to Anthony. He’d get an owl in the morning and send one back at night. Anthony was full of news about what he was learning in class, all the students he’d given detention, and Michael’s latest attempts to convince good-looking sixth year girls to go to Hogsmeade with him. Zacharias had very little to say, but somehow he always managed to make his letters long. It was a good enough substitute for actually being with Anthony and having a proper conversation.

They hadn’t talked about the kissing yet.

After Zacharias got off the phone with Megan, he picked up Anthony’s letter from that morning and re-read it to formulate a fitting reply. Anthony had taken the first step towards talking about more serious things: he’d mentioned Tracey.

Anthony had a long chat with her. She’d said that she was willing to forgive Zacharias, but only if he came back to Hogwarts, bribed his way onto the Quidditch team and stopped being such an “ignorant self-absorbed twat.” Her exact words, apparently.

Well, he’d have to confront all of this eventually. Sighing, Zacharias dipped his quill into his ink well and began a reply.

 

_Anthony,_

_I’ve read your letter at least ten times over the course of the day, and I’m still not sure how to feel about what Tracey said. Nor will I ever, I imagine, given that I am so self-absorbed. I’ve become very good at not thinking about problems like this. You may tell Tracey that I have long since forgiven her for being the worst best friend ever, and that although she is a hateful harridan with absolutely no redeeming features whatsoever, should she want equally bad company, I have very little else to do with my time. She’ll understand._

_Food: green tea for breakfast, Greek salad for lunch (and I use the word “Greek” loosely—it was perhaps closer to rocket with vinegar and maybe two or three olives) at the Ministry cafeteria (the actual cafeteria, not the pub that I told you about. Mind you, it took me over a week to find it so it may well not exist when I go back tomorrow.), fruit salad for dinner. Clothing: at the moment, I’m wearing my pants and a few of your sheets (it’s getting cold), but today I wore one of the new robes. I hate robes. Have I mentioned that? Conversations: Linwood, of course, and a long chat with Celia about Quidditch. I told her in no uncertain terms that her affinity for the Chudley Cannons meant we could no longer be on speaking terms, and she seemed to think it was very funny. I have no idea who the Chudley Cannons are. Megan told me once that, geographically, I’m a Wigtown supporter. I take it Chudley is nowhere near Wigtown._

_Speaking of Megan, we just spent an hour on the phone trying to exorcise my Scottish accent. It isn’t working very well. Any tips for sounding more like you would be appreciated._

_Also. I hesitate to mention it, but we should probably talk about the fact that we kissed._

_Yours,_

_Zacharias_

 

Satisfied that he’d set the inevitable conversation off to a good start, Zacharias folded the letter and sent it off with Anthony’s owl, Epimetheus.

Zacharias didn’t sleep well that night—it was unusual for him to be lying awake. Even when he’d been categorically out of speaking terms with Anthony in their seventh year, it was easy enough to go to bed at night without worrying about the future. Fights and arguments between friends weren’t permanent. Eventually, he and Anthony had started speaking again, and eventually, he would speak to Tracey again.

But relationships required a bit more long-term planning. Zacharias wasn’t even sure that he was the sort of person anyone would want around for more than a few minutes at a time, let alone for—for however long relationships lasted. He’d spent some time thinking about it, and had a long conversation with Helen the guard, and had come to the conclusion that essentially, whatever Anthony wanted from him, he’d do it.

“Some people will go to great lengths for love,” Helen had said. “Maybe you’re one of those.”

Zacharias had stopped listening when she’d used the word “love” and had decided that maybe she wasn’t the best person to ask for relationship advice—she had assumed he was coming to ask for directions, and had gotten a bit too chipper when he’d mentioned romance—but it had been better than nothing, and it had helped him sort a few things out in his mind.

It still didn’t help him get any sleep.

Anthony’s owl came the next morning while Zacharias was running, attacking him from his periphery and prompting a Muggle jogger—Tamara, one of the regulars—to ask if he needed first-aid.

“I’m fine,” Zacharias said, surreptitiously removing the letter from Epimetheus’ leg. It flew off, presumably to spend the rest of the day perched on a branch outside the kitchen window.

“I’ve never seen an owl swoop on someone like that,” Tamara said. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

Zacharias shrugged, scratching his neck where Epimetheus had landed. “A cup of tea, probably.”

Later that morning, he sat in the café with a cup of darjeeling in one hand and the letter in the other.

 

_Zach,_

_You know, when I read your letters, I’m already writing a reply in my head before I hit the end. I feel like you should know that I had a lot of very good advice regarding the Tracey situation, and some jokes about breakfast, but it all feels a little irrelevant since you used the K word. ~~We should~~ ~~Alright, let’s talk about~~_

_Let me just start from the beginning, because I wouldn’t know how else to begin to talk about this. The story starts last year, when you informed me that you were leaving Dumbledore’s Army for good—give or take a bit of swearing—and we spent all that time pretending that we wanted to ignore one another. All it took was some time away from you for me to realise that ~~I fancied~~ instead of sitting next to you in class, I’d rather be ~~taking you out for dinner and~~ doing things that begin with K, I suppose, and other things besides. So for the last however many months I’ve been sitting on the edge of asking you out, properly, and then when I did, you said yes, which was, admittedly, a bit of a shock. I did realise after the fact that you didn’t actually know what you were agreeing to, which was less of a shock. I’m sure we’ll be able to laugh about in a few years time, or whenever Terry and Mike stop teasing me about it._

_That’s all history, though, and you’re right, we should probably talk about the fact that we kissed. Not bad for a first try, I think. But in the interests of scientific rigour, I’d say we need to repeat the experiment as many times as possible._

_Also, also. Last-minute addendum. I’m going to try this without scribbling anything out. Let’s go out. I don’t mean on a date, because we’ll do that anyway, but let’s go out—as in the B word. Don’t make me write it. Just say yes and then we can kiss in front of everyone on Platform 9 ¾ and cause an absolute scene. It’ll be fun._

_Yours, (this is new! Look at you, taking initiative)_

_Anthony_

 

Zacharias folded the letter slowly. His tea had gone cold, and the clock on the wall said that he was going to be late for work if he didn’t leave the café that very minute. He took his time. 

It was the day of his first seminar, and it probably wouldn’t do to arrive late. For one, Lucretia would have his bollocks. Zacharias wasn’t exactly sure what “having his bollocks” entailed, but Celia had told him that it was the fate of the last poor sod who’d shown up late to work, whose desk now belonged to Zacharias.

Still, he went back to Anthony’s flat and washed the scrape on his neck. Epimetheus was, predictably, sitting outside the window, and Zacharias opened it to let him in. It didn’t take much thought to write out a reply.

 

_Anthony,_

_Yes, yes to everything. Here’s to December._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Zacharias_

 

Satisfied with his response to the situation, he fastened the letter to Epimetheus. “Godspeed, you stupid fucking owl,” he said, letting it loose into the air. If he was lucky, there’d be a reply by the end of the day. 

Zacharias caught the tube a few minutes later than he probably should have, bouncing on his heels the whole way, and occasionally hitting his head on the roof of the carriage. He was full of nervous energy, and he needed to tell someone (preferably Tracey, but that was out of the question and he was _not_ going to think about her) about this latest development. He tried to picture a repeat of _that conversation_ with his mother.

“And do you have a girlfriend yet?”

“Actually,” he imagined himself telling her, “I have a boyfriend.”

It was surprisingly liberating, even just to think it.

He was only in the office ten minutes later than usual, but Maurene gave him a disapproving look. “If Lucretia were here—”

“She’d have my bollocks,” Zacharias finished. “Yes, so I’m told.” He paused. “Where is she, then?”

“There’s been a crisis,” Thaddeus said.

“One of our more, ah, _high-profile_ Aurors was caught pants-down with a _higher_ -profile musician,” Celia explained. “Horner and Linwood are in damage control mode.”                                                       

Zacharias frowned, putting his bag down on his desk. “When you say ‘caught pants-down,’ how exactly does that work?”

“Another Auror walked in on them, I’ve heard,” Maurene said. “Shameful, really, but this sort of thing is what keeps us in our jobs!”

Lucretia chose that moment to make a dramatic entrance into the office. “Excellent, you’re all here.”

“Smith was late,” Thaddeus said quietly, and Zacharias gave him a pointed glare.

Luckily, Lucretia didn’t seem to hear. “I need one of you to go over to the Prophet headquarters and suppress some of the finer aspects of this story,” she continued.

“I can do that,” Zacharias said. Apart from anything, he was curious, and he needed something to take his mind off Anthony.

“You have a seminar this afternoon,” Celia pointed out. “Let me handle it.”

Lucretia ignored her. “Brilliant. Follow me, Zacharias. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

Zacharias grabbed his bag and followed her—Celia stuck her tongue out as he left the office, and he could swear he heard Maurene mutter something about “ageism,” whatever that meant.

“Don’t get used to it,” Lucretia said. “Think of this as a trial by fire.”

They stepped into a lift, pursued by interdepartmental memos. The memos seemed to avoid Lucretia, though. “When you get to the Prophet offices, ask for Penelope and tell her Lucretia sent you. She won’t give you a hard time, but unfortunately it’s not her we have to deal with. Have you heard of Rita Skeeter?”

“I don’t make a habit of reading the Daily Prophet,” Zacharias said.

“It’s a habit you’ll need to develop, in this job,” Lucretia said. The lift came to a halt in the Atrium, and Lucretia swept herself a clear path through the crowd as people stepped back to avoid her. Zacharias was beginning to get the feeling that she was a bit notorious.

“I’ll make note of that,” he said.

“See that you do. It’s also good to keep abreast of Witch Weekly and the Quidditch Quarterly. Start taking out subscriptions.”

Zacharias raised his eyebrows. “Witch Weekly?”

“You laugh,” Lucretia said, “but gossip is what makes our world spin. Let’s Apparate, and then I’ll tell you more about Skeeter.”

Biting his lip and preparing for the worst, Zacharias took Lucretia’s offered arm and let himself be compressed through space. They landed in the middle of Diagon Alley, and Lucretia was already striding ahead.

“Er, Rita Skeeter?” Zacharias prompted, catching up to her.

“Rita was a Prefect when I started at Hogwarts,” Lucretia said. “We were in different houses, of course, but I knew who she was. She made sure that _everyone_ knew who she was. I heard that she didn’t get great N.E.W.T.s, but she talked her way into a job interning at the Prophet.”

“I know the feeling,” Zacharias mumbled.

“She’s made a name for herself in the journalism world,” Lucretia continued. “Her reputation is built on tell-all biographies and breaking news. Weren’t you even reading the Prophet during the Triwizard Tournament?”

Zacharias had, in fact, tried to instigate a boycott of the Daily Prophet during the Triwizard Tournament, because they focused on Harry Potter instead of reporting anything about Cedric. Cedric had been his teammate, and none of what had happened to him had been fair, even from the beginning. It was one of those things that Zacharias tried not to think about too often.

“I hate to disappoint you,” he said, “but no.”

“Pity,” Lucretia said. “Still, I know that you’re a fast learner. You’ll get there.”

They stopped outside an unassuming building, and Lucretia produced a scroll of parchment from her robe. “Here are the details of the incident. Well, the details that Rita is allowed to know. This is an official Ministry press release, Zacharias, and you are to treat it like it’s worth a million galleons. If you lose it, you’re fired.”

“Right,” Zacharias said, taking the scroll with some trepidation.

“Talk to Penelope first, but ultimately you’ll need to give this to Rita. Try to dissuade her from publishing as much as possible. Convince her that it’s not a big story.”

“She’ll know it’s a big story,” Zacharias said, even though he wasn’t quite sure why two famous people having sex constituted breaking news.

Lucretia nodded. “Naturally. Lie.”

Zacharias returned her nod. He felt like he might be getting the hang of this, although he wasn’t looking forward to taking out a subscription to Witch Weekly. Lucretia left him, and he reasoned that there was no point in prevaricating. He went straight into the building.

The entrance hall was bare, but for a bored-looking wizard sitting at a desk and doodling on a scrap of parchment. “Can I help you?” he asked, not looking up.

“I’m here to speak to Penelope,” Zacharias said. He felt a bit stupid, not even knowing her surname.

The receptionist looked up. “No visitors,” he said.

The way Zacharias saw it, the easiest option here would be to metaphorically place Lucretia’s name on the desk in front of him and use it as a skeleton key. But he remembered the way that the crowd had parted for her at the Ministry, the way that even the memos had avoided her. Throwing her name about was one thing, but _being_ her was another. Zacharias knew which one he wanted.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t have time for this. I’m from the Department of Public Relations, I’ve got a press release in my pocket, and I need to speak to Penelope. If you don’t tell me how to get to her office, I’ll—I’ll have your bollocks, you useless sack of Bubotuber pus.”

Zacharias took a deep breath. The receptionist was staring at him, his mouth hanging open. Maybe, on reflection, Lucretia didn’t get where she was with that sort of language. It had felt good, though. Insulting a stranger felt safe, like there would never be any of the repercussions that would come with, say, insulting Ernie. It felt like for once, he was in control.

“She’s in the first floor workroom,” the receptionist stuttered. “I’ll show you the way.”

“Thanks,” Zacharias said, his eyes wide with surprise. Not only had it felt good, it had _worked_.

The Daily Prophet workroom was a labyrinth of desks aligned at odd angles and reams of parchment spilling out of typewriters. It smelt of ink and made Zacharias a little bit dizzy. The receptionist left him to find Penelope on his own.

Zacharias stepped over parchment and snapped quills until he found his way to a desk with a name-card on it, stating that the desk belonged to Penelope Clearwater. She was a tallish girl with impossibly long and curly brown hair, and a smile like she knew exactly what Zacharias was about to say.

“Smith, isn’t it?” she said. “I’ve heard all about your appointment to the Ministry. Interesting position you have.”

“Lucretia sent me,” Zacharias said. “Apparently I’m to talk to you before giving a press release to Rita Skeeter.”

“Of course,” Penelope said. “I’m one of the Prophet’s Ministry Liaisons. You went through Hogwarts at the same time as Harry Potter, didn’t you?”

Zacharias was caught off-guard by the sudden change of subject. “Er, yes…?”

“Then you’ll know Padma and Lisa,” Penelope said. “Lovely girls. I was very good friends with them at the time. Oh, and that boy with the short curly hair—what was his name?”

“Anthony?” Zacharias asked.

Penelope nodded. “That’s the one. I wonder what happened to him.” 

“He’s my boyfriend,” Zacharias blurted. “Er, I mean, he has longer hair now, and he’s Head Boy.”

“Oh!” Penelope exclaimed. “I dated a Head Boy once, too.”

She smiled, and Zacharias let out the breath he’d been holding. He’d said it aloud, and somehow, saying it aloud made it more real. He felt overwhelmingly and unexpectedly proud of himself.

“Come on then,” Penelope said. “Stop blushing. Let’s get this Skeeter business over and done with.”

The Prophet headquarters were in an old building with no lift, and it was two flights of an iron-wrought staircase before they reached the offices of the more senior staff. Rita Skeeter had an office with a lime green door to match the quill she used, and ostentatious rings on her fingers clacked together as she wrote.

“Penelope, darling,” she said, “are you going to introduce me to your tall friend?”

Penelope opened her mouth to respond, but Zacharias cut her off. “I’m Zacharias Smith,” he said, “from the Department of Public Relations.” He saw Rita’s eyes light up, so he kept going. “Don’t get too excited. This is just a delivery.”

“And what good news have you brought me?” Rita asked.

Zacharias produced the press release from his pocket. He realised as he opened his mouth that he didn’t actually know who was involved in the high-profile sex scandal, so he would have to improvise. “I’m told you’re reporting on an incident. I’ve got the information you’re looking for.”

He recognised something in her expression, a sort of greed, or perhaps desire. She knew that what she wanted was almost in her grasp. There was no _way_ he was going to convince her it wasn’t big—its sheer importance, to her at least, was written all over her face. She’d get her story, one way or another.

“There are conditions on this information,” he said.

Looking back on it, Zacharias might have said that this was the moment he came into his own, and left a part of himself behind. He didn’t know why he said it, other than that he was acting on instinct. All he knew was that Rita Skeeter was a sensationalist, and that she had been one of the reporters pushing Cedric Diggory aside for a “better” story during the Triwizard Tournament. He remembered how angry he’d been, for Cedric and for Hufflepuff, and although revenge was _such_ a Gryffindor thing, Zacharias didn’t see anything wrong in a little bit of self-indulgence.

Besides, he was on a roll.

“What sort of conditions?” Rita asked.

“No names,” Zacharias said. “You put their names in print, and I’ll make sure you never write again.”

“Big talk for a junior employee,” she said. “How exactly are you going to do that?”

Zacharias smiled. “Trade secret,” he said—code for “I don’t know, I’m sure Lucretia will think of something.”

“We’ll see about that,” Rita said. She leant across the table and stretched her arm out. “The press release, if you’d be so kind.”

Zacharias hesitated. “This is all you get,” he said. “This is all you publish. And no names. Not even speculation.” It occurred to him that he ought to have at least skimmed the press release before giving it to her. If the two people involved had been named, then Rita would know that he was bluffing and he’d lose all credibility. But surely Lucretia and Linwood wouldn’t let that sort of information slip from their grasp?

“Yes, fine,” Rita said dismissively. “Just give me the damn thing!”

“Done,” Zacharias said, handing her the scroll.

When he left the Daily Prophet headquarters, he felt drained. Penelope had told him he’d done well, and left him with a “say hello to Anthony.” But now there was the question of his seminar.

He’d spent the last week drafting and preparing his speech, and he’d rehearsed it once or twice in his natural accent. It didn’t feel like he’d done enough. Celia met him outside the Prophet headquarters and Apparated them back to the Ministry. She walked him towards the seminar room and then disappeared back to her desk.

The room was full, and Zacharias hadn’t eaten anything all day. Linwood was already there; he gave a brief introduction before gesturing for Zacharias to take the stage.

He took a deep breath.

“Good afternoon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do leave a review! As always, I'm keen for any thoughts/feedback/etc. C:


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read this chapter, it's important to note that what you may refer to as "underpants", the British call "pants". (Your "pants" are "trousers".) Keep that in mind, and enjoy!

Zacharias had started to get odd looks in the corridors. A woman from Personnel Management had stopped in her tracks as he walked past her, her eyes following him nervously, and one of the Minister’s assistants had nearly dropped a stack of parchment when Zacharias had asked him the way to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Even Helen the guard had done a double-take when she’d seen him that morning.

He’d overheard Maurene talking about him in the cafeteria. “I thought he was just a shy boy,” she said. “A regional type, you know, having trouble adjusting to life in London. It turns out he’s quite the bad egg!”

“Maurene calls everyone a ‘bad egg’ at one point or another,” Celia reassured him. “Try not to take it personally.”

Word spread quickly in the Ministry. Zacharias had never thought he’d witness gossip moving faster than it had through the halls of Hogwarts, but it had been less than a day before the whole Ministry was talking about the junior in PR who had terrified Rita Skeeter out of publishing an article. Zacharias suspected that he had not actually terrified her out of anything, but that Lucretia’s press release was simply sparse and didn’t contain enough information for a good story.

He was happy to take the credit, though.

Lucretia seemed pleased, too. “Not bad, Zacharias,” were her exact words. And the seminar hadn’t gone badly, either. Zacharias had slipped into his Scottish accent a few times, but he hadn’t stuttered or stumbled over his words, and he felt like he’d got the message across. Linwood was _certainly_ pleased. “Not bad at _all_ , Smith.”

Zacharias was just getting used to being the centre of attention when, as always, someone else came along and stole the limelight.

The office door flew open with the sort of melodramatic flair that only Linwood could conjure. “We’ve got a dead man walking,” he said, “so keep your mouths shut and don’t mention the War.”

“The War?” Celia asked. “First Wizarding or Second World?”

“Second Wizarding,” Linwood clarified. “This one’s a bit of a war hero. Percy Weasley. No-one’s quite sure what he saw, but he took extended leave and apparently didn’t leave his house for five months after the Battle.”

“So we’re treading on eggshells around him,” Thaddeus said flatly.

“We’re showing him _due respect_ ,” Maurene said, frowning. “It’s the least we can do for a war hero.”

Zacharias wasn’t sure, but Percy Weasley might have been the one he met in the Hog’s Head on the night of the Battle. The idea that licking Weasley’s boots might become part of the job description was entirely unpleasant.

“What does he do?” he asked. “I mean, how likely is it that our paths will cross?”

Maurene sighed like Zacharias had just asked an incredibly stupid question. “We cross paths with _everyone_ in this job.”

“Senior Assistant to the Minister,” Linwood said. “His office is just down the corridor.”

“I’ll make a note to avoid it,” Zacharias muttered.

It became increasingly clear, however, that avoiding Percy Weasley was not the easiest of tasks. As the Minister’s Senior Assistant, he had a stake in everyone’s business, and it wasn’t long before he showed his face in the PR office.

Thaddeus seemed to have been expecting him, because he sprang up the moment the door opened with his best obsequious smile. In the time they’d been working together, Zacharias decided that he might have liked Thaddeus, if only he wasn’t so determined to ruin the careers of everyone around him. It made sense that he’d have gone to Percy Weasley, breaking Linwood’s imposed vow of silence and putting himself in the spotlight.

“Kravitz,” Percy said, “I’ve got those papers you asked for from WIT. Fawley was loath to make copies for you, but she does understand that this will eventually become a Public Relations issue.”

“I have several questions,” Zacharias whispered to Celia, leaning over to her desk.

He must not have whispered quietly enough, because Percy turned his attention their way. “Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked Zacharias.

“Er, yeah,” Zacharias said, “Hog’s Head, just before the Battle of Hogwarts.”

The room stilled. Right— _don’t mention the War_.

Percy cleared his throat before putting an end to the uncomfortable silence. “Of course,” he said quickly. “Of course, you were the Hufflepuff Prefect.”

“Yeah,” Zacharias said, hoping he hadn’t triggered some sort of shellshock. Apart from anything else, there was probably a No Mental Breakdowns In The Office rule.

“The papers?” Thaddeus said.

“Right here,” Percy said, pulling several scrolls of parchment from his robes. He named each one as he placed it on Thaddeus’ desk. “The minutes of this year’s ICW GA, next year’s schedule, the ICW Constitution Section 6 Subsection H—that’s our loophole—and a draft of the appeal that Fawley’s been putting together for Cribbins.” He paused for breath. “Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going.”

Once Percy had left the office, Zacharias turned to Celia. “I understood perhaps one word in ten,” he said. So far, he hadn’t been doing too badly with Ministry jargon, but Percy Weasley’s initialisms had felt incomprehensible, like listening to Justin talk about Muggle politics.

“Where should I start?” Celia asked.

“Er, you can start by telling me what WIT is, apart from an abstract concept generally associated with Ravenclaws.”

“Right,” Celia said. “WIT is the Wizarding Intelligence Taskforce. You’re Muggle-raised, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you’ll have heard of MI5. Think MI5, but a lot more secret. No-one outside of the Ministry really knows what they do. Still, I’m surprised you’ve not at least heard of it.”

Zacharias shrugged, trying to look nonchalant enough that it would seem as though he knew anything about MI5. “Like you said—I’m Muggle-raised.”

Celia rolled her eyes. “Well, here’s the short version of what all those scrolls are: at the International Confederation of Wizards’ General Assembly in March, the Death Eater Ministry petitioned for the GA in two years time to be held in London. The GA next March is in Buenos Aires, and it’s our only chance to change the location—we’re not ready to host the ICW. It’s sort of a big deal.”

Zacharias decided that he’d have to do some reading in his spare time to flesh out Celia’s sparse explanation. Maybe he’d find some time to go down to the Ministry Archives on Level 9 ½, between the Department of Mysteries and the Courtrooms. “Alright, so who are Fawley and Cribbins?”

“Clarissa Fawley is the Head of Diplomatic Relations at WIT,” Celia said. “She’s tough and Scottish. You’d like her. And Davey Cribbins is the Wizengamot representative who’ll be making our case at the next GA. Nice enough, but not the best speaker. That’s why Fawley’s preparing the appeal for him.”

“Makes sense,” Zacharias said.

“Good,” Celia said. “Now get back to work!”

Zacharias was spending most of his time improving and rewriting parts of his seminar, but occasionally he’d be given a press release to take to Penelope—an endeavour which somehow always ended in a trip to Florean Fortescue’s. Penelope was good company, and she knew how to make a conversation interesting without talking about work, something that was thin on the ground at the Ministry. And she was passionate about ice cream, which Zacharias could hardly object to.

Penelope was slotting as neatly into his routine as the morning delivery. The Daily Prophet was the only way Zacharias could piece together the goings on of the Ministry. No-one told him anything in the office—you were just expected to work it out for yourself. Even Celia only explained things when prompted.

A  week after he’d begun liaising with Penelope, Zacharias was facing his first quadruple delivery: the Prophet, Witch Weekly, Quidditch Quarterly, and a letter from Anthony. He’d extracted himself from bed stupidly early to read through the news for work before he went for his run, and reluctantly put Anthony’s letter at the bottom of the pile 

Out of curiosity, he started with Witch Weekly. He made it halfway through an article titled “Ten Hot Tips For Bewitching Your Wizard In The Bedroom” before giving in and reading the letter instead.           

 

_Zach,_

_I haven’t told anyone except Mike, Terry and Tracey, but Ernie gave me the strangest look in the corridor today. He knows. I only told Tracey yesterday, by the way, because her reaction was always going to be a bit more volatile—well, more volatile than being laughed at in the middle of Transfig. (Did I mention that when McGonagall asked them what was so funny, Mike said something along the lines of “one of our friends just gave us some very bad news”? I shouldn’t have told them in class. I should not have told them in class.)_

_Anyway, Tracey. She punched me in the arm (left a bruise and everything) and told me that she was happy for me, but “that doesn’t mean I’m just going to forgive that dickhead.” So you’re still in the Bad Books, I’m afraid. If it makes you feel any better, she’s stopped walking away when I mention your name, so I think it’s only a matter of time._

_Also, I think we need to stop doing the daily summary. It’s becoming very hard for me to keep track of all the conversations I’ve had, let alone waiting a day for the answer to “so what are you wearing?” So from now on I’m going to imagine you read all of my letters in your pants, alright?_

_Yours with the utmost sincerity fathomable,_

_Anthony_

 

Zacharias glanced down at the magazine lying open on the table. He’d gotten up to tip #6—“Wear something spellbinding to keep your wizard attentive! You won’t find lovely lacy robes at Madam Malkin’s, but a turn down Knockturn Alley will take you past The Veela’s Charm and other speciality stores.”

“I doubt I’ll be trying that,” he mumbled, folding the magazine shut and pushing it across the table. There was absolutely no way that Anthony knew what Zacharias’ pants looked like, so either he had a very vivid imagination or he’d been browsing the unsavoury end of Knockturn.

The Daily Prophet was easy reading, but Quidditch Quarterly and Witch Weekly took a bit longer to digest, so Zacharias put them in the bag with his robes when he left for work, stopping at the café for a cup of green tea and half a slice of toast.

That morning Celia greeted him on the tube. She’d confided in Zacharias that she hated Apparition just as much as he did, so she always took the long way to the Ministry. “You’re early today,” she commented.

Celia got on at Belsize Park, and sometimes their morning journeys coincided. She always seemed to know which carriage he was in, although they didn’t meet often. Celia was punctual to a fault, and Zacharias was the sort of person who had regularly showed up late to the greenhouses for Herbology, telling Professor Sprout that it wasn’t his fault that he had to walk so far.

“Got up early to read the papers,” he said. “Barely made it through the Weekly.”

“The Weekly’s a chore,” Celia acknowledged. “Secretly, I think Lucretia makes us read it because she moonlights as the Agony Aunt.”

“I haven’t hit the Agony Aunt yet,” Zacharias said. Not to mention the fact that he wasn’t sure what comprised an Agony Aunt’s duties, but it didn’t sound pleasant.

“We’ll read it in the office,” Celia said.

Maurene was, predictably, already at her desk when they arrived. “Need I ask why the two of you are here at the same time?”

“You needn’t,” Zacharias said.

“We’re not shagging, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Celia said. “Where’s Thad?”

“Licking Weasley’s arse, probably,” Zacharias said. “Did you see how keen he was the other day?”

“Don’t be crude,” Maurene said. “He is _liaising_ with Mr. Weasley over _important matters_.”

Celia sighed. “So who put him in charge of this ICW business, then?”

“He’s not in charge of anything,” Maurene replied stiffly. “When the time comes, we’ll all pull our weight.”

Zacharias shoved his bag onto his desk and pulled out Witch Weekly. “Right then, which page is the agony aunt on?”

“45,” Celia said. She took her own copy from her bag and flicked through the pages. “Dear Swoonsayer,” she read, “my wizard can’t raise his wand when I want him to, if you know what I mean. We’ve tried everything, and he swears this has never happened to him before. What am I doing wrong? Sincerely, Frustrated, 27, Durham.”

“How many 27-year-old witches can there possibly be in Durham?” Zacharias asked.

“No, you’re supposed to read the Swoonsayer’s reply in Lucretia’s accent,” Celia said. “Come on!”

“I can’t do accents,” Zacharias said. “Will you settle for high-pitched Glaswegian?”

“Anything to hear your idea of high-pitched,” she replied, laughing.

Zacharias nodded. “‘Dear Frustrated, it sounds to me like you’re being too controlling. Give your wizard his time, and maybe he’ll be able to cast some spells on his own terms. Let him initiate your romance, sit back and watch the magic happe—’ fuck, I can’t do it, this is so stupid. What if he’s just bloody impotent?”

Celia cackled, wiping a tear from her eye with the corner of page 45. “You’d be a better Swoonsayer,” she said. “Maybe you should put this fraud out of a job.”

“I already _have_ a job,” Zacharias said defensively.

“An Agony Uncle on the side, then,” Celia said. “Dear Smithsayer, I can’t seem to get girls to like me, so I put all my energy into my job and belittle other people to get my kicks. Is there something wrong with me? Sincerely, Thaddeus, 32, London.”

“Dear Thaddeus,” Zacharias began—he stopped as the door to the office opened and Thaddeus walked in, followed by Percy. “Yes,” he finished quickly, before either of them could speak.

Zacharias expected Percy and Thaddeus to continue talking, but instead Percy made his way to Zacharias’ desk.

“I hear you’ve been liaising with the Daily Prophet,” he said. “In particular, with one Penelope Clearwater.”

“I have,” Zacharias said. “Who wants to know?”

Percy gave a weary sigh. “ _I_ want to know,” he said. “Can we talk in the corridor?”

Zacharias shrugged and followed Percy out. If they needed to talk privately, it was probably something important. He hadn’t been let in on any Ministry secrets yet—maybe this was his day.

“I need you to get a message to Penelope,” Percy started.

“Something you can’t just send by owl?” Zacharias asked.

Percy raised his eyebrows. “You would do well not to question your superiors—”

“And you would do well to answer my question,” Zacharias said, beginning to get impatient. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the PR Department’s poster boy for questionable workplace ethics, and if I’m delivering a message in person, I’ll need to know why.”

Talking to Percy Weasley was an interesting experience for Zacharias—Percy was almost his height, and they stood eye-to-eye. Most people were easy to subordinate by virtue of their height, but Percy wasn’t so easily frightened.

“I started working for the Ministry at eighteen too,” Percy said. “I thought I knew everything there was to know because I had a secure job and a boss who seemed to respect me.” He paused. “Granted, I was never quite so rude about it as you, but the point stands that I carried myself with far too much superiority for my station. Humility is one of the most important things you’ll learn in this job, Smith, and there’s no time like the present to start.”

“Spare me the lecture, Professor,” Zacharias said, rolling his eyes. “I’m giving a seminar in—” he checked his watch, “—two hours, and after that I’ll head to the Prophet offices and deliver your message to Penelope. What am I telling her?”

“Tell her I’m sorry we parted on bad terms,” Percy said slowly, “and that I’d be open to meeting her for tea if she wants to try and repair our friendship.”

Zacharias stared at Percy, his mouth hanging open in confusion. “Sorry, I must have misheard you. I was under the impression that this was some sort of important Ministry business, but it sounded like you asked me to get you back with an old friend.”

“Girlfriend,” Percy corrected. “We went out for a few years and—look, you don’t need to know about our history. Just tell her what I said.”

“Oh,” Zacharias said, “you’re the Head Boy she mentioned dating.”

“She’s _mentioned_ me?” Percy sounded far too eager over something so small. “What did she say?”

“Nothing much,” Zacharias said. “We were discussing Head Boys, and it only came up in passing.”

Percy gave him an odd look, but if he was curious about why they’d been discussing Head Boys, he didn’t mention it. “At least tell her I said sorry.”

“Sure,” Zacharias said. In fact, what would probably happen was that he would tell Penelope that her ex was a bit of an idiot and then they’d laugh about it over ice cream. But Percy didn’t need to know that.

It was all a bit ridiculous, this business with Percy Weasley barging into the Ministry and making things difficult for Zacharias. The Weasleys he’d known at Hogwarts had been bad enough. He didn’t need another in his life.

He tried not to think about it as he gave his seminar later that morning. His first two seminars had been in the Department of Magical Games and Sports—one of the smallest departments—and his next three would be in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. It was a different crowd, so Zacharias had altered his speech a little to fit in with Linwood’s suggestions.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m Zacharias Smith from the Department of Public Relations, and I’ll be talking to you today about the future of the Ministry of Magic in the post-war world.”

“You the one who told Skeeter, then?” someone from the audience called out.

Linwood had prepared Zacharias to expect questions, but not _during his speech_.

“I’m sorry?” he said. “Could you repeat the question?”

“You’re the one who put the frighteners on Rita Skeeter,” the man clarified. “Aren’t you?”

Zacharias blinked dumbly. “I, er—I’ll answer any questions you have at the end of the seminar,” he said. “For now, I’m going to start by giving a brief summary of the events leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“Did you fight in the Battle?” the same man asked.

“Yes,” Zacharias said quickly. “ _Now_ , if there are no further questions, I’ll continue.”

There were no more questions—maybe, Zacharias thought, his reputation had preceded him. If this was all it took to become Lucretia Horner, he wondered if he couldn’t even do one better.

After his seminar, Zacharias took the Floo Network to the Leaky Cauldron to meet Penelope for lunch. He’d sent her an owl ahead of time to arrange it, but he didn’t think she’d be pleased when she found out why he was there in the first place.

“Zach, over here!”

Zacharias brushed some ash off his sleeve and followed the sound of Penelope’s voice. “What’s the occasion?” she asked. “Is this another press release?”

“I wish,” Zacharias said. “This is a much more _important_ delivery.”

Penelope drew her eyebrows together in a frown. “Was that sarcasm?”

“Yeah,” Zacharias said, sitting down at her table. “I spoke to Percy Weasley.”

“Go on.”

“He wants to apologise and get together for tea, and apparently he’s too embarrassed to send you an owl, so he sent me instead,” Zacharias explained. “I would have thought you had better taste than that, Penelope.”

She laughed shook her head. “We were sixteen when we started going out, alright? He was a good friend, but a _terrible_ boyfriend. Well, not classically terrible. He remembered every birthday, every anniversary, _everything_ , but he was so… _obliging_.”

“What do you mean?” Zacharias asked. He wasn’t sure what being a “good boyfriend” entailed, but maybe it was time to start taking notes.

“He always let me get my way. Never argued with me, never seemed to want to do anything for himself, never had any opinions.” She sighed. “And the one time he decided to have an opinion, it was one I didn’t like. We broke up over it.”

“Dare I ask?” Zacharias said, flagging down a waiter to take their order.

“Chose the Ministry over his family,” she said. “And over his friends. I mean, at least he fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, after all that. But he was still wrong to choose promotion over principles in the first place.”

Zacharias bit his  lip, crossing his legs under the table as the waiter came over. He’d expected—well, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Penelope, but it wasn’t _that_. Zacharias wondered if maybe he might be the exception, not the rule. He had abandoned his friends more times than he could count. He’d quit the DA, he’d run from the Battle of Hogwarts, he’d left school for a job. If Penelope knew him more than superficially, she’d _hate_ him.

The waiter took their orders and left an awkward silence in his wake.

“Obviously, it’s all in the past,” Penelope said quickly. “Maybe I should seek him out again. Maybe I could give you a message to send back to him.”

“I’m not becoming your go-between,” Zacharias said. “I already have a job.”

“Relax,” Penelope said, “I’ll write down my address, and you can tell him to man up and owl me himself.” She paused. “Tell him I’ve got a boyfriend, though, and that I’m only interested in friendship.”

“Do you? Have a boyfriend, I mean.”

“Of course not,” Penelope said. “I just don’t want it to be him.”

“Makes sense,” Zacharias said.  “I wouldn’t either.”

At that, Penelope laughed, relaxing a little. “Yeah, well, you’ve clearly got better taste than I have.”

Zacharias shrugged. “I must have.”

When he got back home that evening, he lay down on the couch for a moment and woke up half an hour later to the sound of the phone ringing—it was someone trying to sell him a heated toilet roll holder. After hanging up on them, he sat down to write a reply to Anthony’s morning letter. He couldn’t stop thinking about Witch Weekly, about Penelope and Percy, and how even though he was trying to do a job and make something of a name for himself, it all came back to romance—the one thing he knew next-to-nothing about.

 

_Anthony,_

_Alright, well, you don’t know what my pants look like but I’m relying on your Ravenclaw imagination to get you through these trying times. I read in Witch Weekly (don’t laugh) that “wearing something exciting” is some sort of pinnacle of contentment in relationships. I hope for your sake that your imagination has taken out a subscription._

_In related news, Penelope tells me that a “good boyfriend” is not obliging, is selfish, and frequently has contrary opinions. I think I’m a natural. You’ll tell me if I’m ever too nice, won’t you? In fact, regular critique would be appreciated. Then again, considering I spent a good seven years under the impression that you were far too sophisticated for romance, maybe you’re just as confused as I am. That would certainly be reassuring._

_I feel like I’m settling into the job. I get a lot of people looking the other way when I pass them, which can only be a good thing. Lucretia regularly gives me faint praise—I’ve heard people speak of “role models” before, but I don’t think I’ve ever looked up to anyone so much as I look up to her. You should see her in action. She’s terrifying. Between you and me, I’d quite like to take her place one day._

_This is a fairly embarrassing letter. You should probably hide it from your friends to make sure that they don’t read it out in class, or anything like that._

_Yours with so much sincerity that the sentiment seems false,_

_Zacharias_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome! C:
> 
> (Also just like. Ask me about backstory. I have so much backstory. Ask me about my choices. Question my integrity. I am literally never not in the mood to chat about headcanon etc.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so, this has been a long time coming, and I've actually been keeping it back for a while for final adjustments and the like... but there's a lot in this chapter and I don't think I can keep fiddling with it anymore, and I kind of feel like for such a niche fandom I need to update regularly or people will forget this fic exists, haha. So, this one goes out to my fellow Zacharias Smith Apologists, with apologies for the wait. Hope you enjoy!

Humiliation was no stranger to Zacharias. At his first school, before he’d known about magic, he was an easy target for the overgrown Glasgow schoolyard bullies—scrawny, played in the school band, didn’t fight back. After a while, he started pinching extra change from his mother’s purse just in case someone asked for his dinner money. She never noticed.

No-one picked on him anymore after he overreacted and pushed a boy twice his size halfway across the basketball court. He’d always suspected that the only reason the incident had gone by with little notice was because his father had Confunded the Principal.

There wasn’t anyone like that at Hogwarts—teenagers specialised in a much more subtle shade of humiliation. It was the look people gave you when you disagreed with popular opinion. It was the begrudging edge to their tone when they were forced to talk to you. It was the Ginny Weasley Quidditch Incident—verbal taunts were nothing compared to a concussion, after all.

At least he was good at brushing it off. He’d always found it easy to put other people’s dislike of him down to some fundamental difference in the way they thought. If  they didn’t like him, it was their own problem.

“The thing is,” he told Celia, “I’ve never much cared about what people think of me.”

“I thought you said you’d always had a bit of a reputation,” she said, twirling her glass of butterbeer. They were sitting at a table in the “Ministry cafeteria” during their lunch break, and Celia brought up the subject, saying that she had trouble understanding why none of the negative attention bothered Zacharias.

“Sure, a reputation for being rude and spiteful,” he said. “You ask _one_ question, and suddenly you’re sticking your nose in someone else’s business. You call _one_ Gryffindor a tosser, and suddenly you’ve made an enemy for life.”

Celia leant forward. “I get the feeling there’s a story behind this.”

“It’s uninteresting,” Zacharias said, shrugging.

Celia was right, of course—there was a story, although he wasn’t sure it was the precise reason that he’d made an enemy for life. It started on the morning before the secret meeting in the Hog’s Head. Anthony had gently coerced Zacharias into spending the day with _his_ friends, for a change, and Michael’s shiny new girlfriend had been there too. Zacharias had never so much as been in the same room as Ginny before, as far as he could recall, but she seemed to have some memory of him selling POTTER STINKS badges, and immediately turned on him. She’d wondered caustically why he was coming to the meeting if he didn’t like Harry Potter, and why had he been making a profit from his prejudices, anyway?

They’d fought for a good fifteen minutes before they reached the Hog’s Head and Zacharias had snapped at her that all the money from the badges had eventually gone toward flowers for Cedric’s funeral. That shut her up, though not for long. Zacharias had never quite worked out why she’d kept bothering him after that—but at least Anthony had stopped trying to get him to spend time with his friends when Michael had Ginny around.

“Pity,” Celia said. “But I still don’t understand how you can maintain a reputation like that and _still_ not care about what people think of you.”

“Years of bullying,” Zacharias said bluntly. “If enough people hate you for no real reason, you stop paying attention.”

Celia narrowed her eyes. “Why were you bullied?”

“Initially, because I played the violin, I think,” he said.

“You’re musical? I wouldn’t have picked that.”

Zacharias frowned. “I’m not musical.”

“But you play the violin,” Celia said, eyebrows raised.

“I _played_ the violin,” Zacharias said, “and the viola. Past tense.”

Celia reached across the table and swatted at his fringe. “Boys are pathetic! Why did you give up?”

Zacharias paused before answering, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. It wasn’t something he’d ever told anyone, not even Tracey or Anthony. “I couldn’t be a wizard _and_ a violist,” he said eventually.

“That—that’s not how it works,” Celia said. “You can be good at more than one thing at a time.”

Zacharias shrugged and leant back in his chair. His experience said otherwise. His marks had dropped considerably when he made it onto the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, just like he’d all but lost his way around the violin once he’d started learning the viola. 

“We should get back,” Celia said. “I have a press release to write, and you need a hobby.”

“Are you suggesting that my work should be my hobby?” Zacharias asked.

“I’m _suggesting_ that the sooner you finish your work for the day, the sooner you can go home and learn to play the viola again,” Celia shot back, exasperated.

Zacharias raised his eyebrows. “Fine. Let’s go back, then.”

He seriously considered taking Celia’s advice for all of half a second—his viola was at the back of a cupboard in Ayr, and stowed away with it any motivation he might once have had.

“Fine,” Celia echoed, “be a baby about it.”

They Apparated back to the Ministry—Zacharias was getting better at not feeling nauseous during the whole process, and given time he thought he might even be able to learn to Apparate himself. Although perhaps that was pushing it. By the time his head had stopped spinning, Celia was already halfway across the Atrium.

Before they could so much as clear the lift, Lucretia stopped them. Zacharias wondered if she’d been waiting there long. She caught a memo in her left hand as the lift doors opened and shook it open with her right.

“This one’s for me,” she said. “Something’s happened while you were gone.”

“There’s always a crisis after lunch,” Celia joked. “I don’t think I can deal with another sex scandal on a full stomach.”

Lucretia laughed humourlessly. “This one makes a sex scandal look like a Bowtruckle next to a Basilisk.” She paused, folding the memo back into a plane and pocketing it. “Meeting in the PR office. Now.”

“Sounds serious,” Celia muttered.

The PR office wasn’t large, but once Lucretia had done a sweep of Level One, it seemed like she’d managed to fit half the Ministry into the room. Alongside the PR staff stood the Minister’s Assistants and Undersecretaries, the Correspondence and Complaints staff, and the singularly uncharismatic lot from Personnel Management.

“Let’s make this quick,” Lucretia said loudly, pushing to the front of the crowd. “I’ve got at least twenty journalists waiting in the Atrium, and they’re expecting something exciting. I don’t want to disappoint.”

“Was there a leak?” someone called out.

“Aye, captain,” Lucretia said, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “a right crack in the hull. We’ll be sinking soon, so you might want to put your personal lives on hold for a few months. That means you too, Gallagher; I will _not_ make it to your wedding.”

There was a barely-audible “well fuck you too!” from somewhere in the crowd.

“Now that I’m done with pleasantries,” Lucretia continued, unperturbed, “there’s been a challenge to Minister Shacklebolt’s position.”

Celia’s eyes widened. “Shit,” she muttered. “I was _so_ hoping no-one would notice.”

“You will all be aware of the fact that Minister Shacklebolt was never formally elected,” Lucretia said, saving Zacharias the trouble of asking, “but was instead acting as a de facto leader in a time of crisis. That time is over, and people have started to realise that there ought to be an election. Tiberius Wimple has formally stated his intention to run, and Minister Shacklebolt is expected to call an election within the next few hours.”

Lucretia paused for effect, waiting for the whispers that started not a moment later.

“Wimple’s notoriously litigious,” Celia said to Zacharias. “His faction has its roots into Correspondence and Complaints, although he’s been working in the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad for as long as I’ve been here.”

Lucretia cleared her throat, and the chatter died down. “Those of you who’ve been here for a while will remember the last few elections, and how much time we spent in damage control.”

Zacharias noticed Maurene nodding proudly.

“This seems like a good opportunity to remind our newer staff that although the politicians like to give the Prophet the impression that they’re the ones hard at work, they are not. It’s Level One that makes this Ministry the success that it is. It’s _you_. And you’ll have to work harder than ever in the next few months. I need to know you’re all ready.”

“We’re _always_ ready!” shouted someone that Zacharias recognised as one of the Minister’s Undersecretaries.

“That’s reassuring, Cadwallader,” Lucretia said. “I’m going to call this impromptu meeting to a close.  I expect to see most of you—Xu, Kravitz, Smith, you in particular—in the Atrium in ten minutes.”

Maurene looked duly scandalised at not being included in Lucretia’s summons, but it was likely because she was such an old hand at this election business. Zacharias, on the other hand, was beginning to realise how little he actually knew about the Ministry. He’d known he was a wizard for ten years and been a part of the magical community for seven, but sometimes he felt as clueless as a Muggle.

Still, he followed the crowd into the lifts and as they filed into the Atrium. When Lucretia said “twenty journalists”, she might have underestimated—there was a crowd of at least a hundred, although they might not all have been journalists. Zacharias thought at least half of them were just curious Ministry employees.

“This is a big deal,” Thaddeus said, trailing slightly behind Celia and Zacharias. “There hasn’t been an election in years.”

“When was the last one?” Zacharias asked.

“Eight years ago,” Thaddeus said. “I had just started working here when it happened. Millicent Bagnold was very popular before she retired, and Fudge only scraped in by a margin. It was a nervous time, just like now. People voted for the safe option.”

“Fudge was hardly safe,” Celia said. “I was sitting my N.E.W.T.s at the time, but all anyone would talk about was the election. People didn’t like Fudge—he was too conservative for our lot.”

“Like I said,” Thaddeus repeated, “ _safe_.”

“So I take it each Minister is incumbent until they get bored of it all and decide to move on?” Zacharias asked.

“Pretty much,” Celia said. “It’s not a very efficient system. Word is, Shacklebolt’s been throwing around the word ‘reform.’”

“It’s all talk,” Thaddeus said.

Zacharias felt like he was starting to understand—the Ministry was very clearly split three ways. There were those who wanted reform, like Celia; those who were happy with the way things were, like Thaddeus; and those who seemed to think that it had been better Back In The Day, like Maurene. Zacharias wasn’t sure where he stood. He hadn’t got where he was without a reputation for being an agitator, but at the same time, he wouldn’t know where to begin when it came to change in the Ministry.

As the press conference began, Zacharias noticed Penelope amongst the journalists and pushed his way towards her. He didn’t really pay attention to Lucretia’s speech—it was nothing she hadn’t said before. She spun it differently for the general public, though. Her words were more neutral, and she had a tighter grasp on the details.

“Busy day?” Penelope asked.

“It’s about to be,” Zacharias said.

Penelope sighed. “I’ve been up since six—someone sent an anonymous tip-off to the Prophet late last night saying that there’d be a Ministerial election soon. Skeeter wanted to go to press this morning, but she’s not our political editor—so Klinkhammer just published something vague about ‘unrest in the Ministry,’ which typically, no-one read, because no-one reads the newspaper for _actual_ news.”

“So why have you been up since six?” Zacharias asked.

“I’ve been preparing articles. We’ve got at least ten set to print, depending on which faction first declares intent to run and how the Minister reacts.”

“That’s dedication,” Zacharias said.

“No,” Penelope said, “that’s journalism.”

Once the press conference was over, Penelope rushed off. “If I’m lucky,” she said, “we’ll get the Evening Prophet in syndication before the conspiracy theorists start writing in.”

Zacharias left Celia and Thaddeus to go back to the office. Instead, he took a detour by the Archives—they were kept on Level 9 ½, which was a flight of staircases down from Level Nine, and tended to by an old man who didn’t speak a word of English. He let Zacharias in with some platitudes in broken Gaelic, and Zacharias made his way through shelf after shelf of Wizengamot minutes to get to the documentation of past Ministerial elections.

As it turned out, Ministry politics were remarkably uncomplicated. As far as Zacharias could tell, they just made it up as they went along. There was very little forethought, and that was evident in the unordered files of passed bills and the haphazard numbering system in the spell and potion catalogues. He tried to make sense of the voting record from the last election, but it seemed as though the votes had been written on strips of parchment in handwriting of varying legibility, delivered by owls, counted by salamanders, and then discarded in favour of the opinion of a committee in the Department of Mysteries.

They might as well have pulled a name from the Goblet of Fire.

Zacharias left the Archives with a bad taste in his mouth, and the sense that he might have made a bad decision in leaving Hogwarts. He liked Public Relations—he liked giving seminars and he liked communicating with the Prophet—but the Ministry was so much bigger than just that.

He felt like a child again, being told about magic for the first time and narrowing his eyes at his father, asking if he was joking. His father had transfigured a marble into the old couch from their house in Glasgow, and Zacharias had got such a fright that half an hour later the polis showed up on their doorstep saying they’d got a call about a possible domestic violence incident.

“Snap out of it,” he told himself, hovering by the lift on Level Nine. It arrived with a clank, and was empty apart from the usual plane memos—and, bizarrely, a charmed paper crane.

When he got back to the office, he found Celia slumped forward over her desk. “Where’ve you been?” she asked, barely glancing up to greet him.

“Archives,” Zacharias said.

Celia sighed. “Well it’s been a bloody long day,” she said.

“It won’t get any easier,” Maurene said. “I’ve witnessed many elections in the past, and—”

“Let’s take tonight to relax,” Celia interrupted. “What do you say, Zach? Do you mind if I call you Zach?”

Zacharias blinked, looking down at the table, and then back at Celia. “If you want to,” he said.

“Great!” Celia said. “I’ll supply the tequila.”

Zacharias was, in general, used to firewhisky and Tracey’s cheap sherry—he’d never tried tequila.

“We’ll do vodka shots too,” Celia added. “Have you got any booze at your flat?”

“ _My_ flat?” Zacharias asked.

“My sister’s been sleeping at mine since she dumped her boyfriend,” Celia explained. “She just sits around watching telly all day. I don’t want to disturb her.”

“Right,” Zacharias said. He thought of Penelope, and how she’d seemed so stressed earlier. “You won’t mind if I invite a friend, then.”

“Invite away,” Celia said. “The more the merrier!”

It was only when they stopped by Tesco on the way home that Celia asked who Zacharias had owled in invitation. “Is it a girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend,” Zacharias repeated. “That’s funny.”

“Funny how?” Celia asked.

“I’m, er…”

Zacharias paused. He pulled a bottle of vodka off the shelf. “Is this a good brand?”

“Too expensive,” Celia said. “You don’t buy expensive vodka if all you want to do is get drunk.”

“I invited Penelope,” Zacharias said. “She works for the Daily Prophet. I presume you’ve met?”

“Once or twice,” Celia said. “This is a better brand. I don’t mind if you’re gay, by the way. You can say it.”

“I’m not gay,” Zacharias said. “I just don’t like girls.”

Celia laughed. “I hate to break it to you, but if you like boys, and you don’t like girls, you’re gay. Have you got ten quid?”

“I’ve got a twenty,” Zacharias said. “And I don’t, er, _like boys_ either.”

“Do you like _anyone_?” Celia asked, pulling her purse out of her pocket. “You pay for the vodka, then, and I’ll field the tequila.”

“His name is Anthony,” Zacharias said. “I mean, the person I—er…”

“Fair enough,” Celia said, shrugging.

Penelope was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when they finally made it to the flat, a paper bag in hand. “I brought the firewhisky,” she said. “Have you got any apples?”

“Firewhisky and apple shots!” Celia exclaimed. “I’m Celia, by the way.”

“Penny. I’ve seen you around, obviously.”

“Of course,” Celia agreed.

Zacharias was frequently amazed by how easily some people managed to make friends. “I don’t have any apples,” he said. “The closest is a half-finished bottle of apple and blackcurrent juice.”

“Sometimes I forget you’re eighteen,” Penelope said, rolling her eyes as though having half-finished juice in lieu of real fruit was somehow a characteristic specifically of eighteen-year-olds.

“Juice will do,” Celia said. “Have you got anything else to mix with the vodka?”

“Lemon squash?” Zacharias suggested.

“Perfect.”

Zacharias had never done shots, although he’d heard Tracey talk about it. In fact, he’d never been drunk without Tracey around in some capacity. It was weird, at first, watching Celia and Penelope chatting amiably as they transfigured Anthony’s cups into shot glasses and lined them up on the coffee table, but a few vodka shots in, he didn’t feel half so uncomfortable. They had the radio on in the background playing some Muggle station—Zacharias’ knowledge of pop music began and ended with Anthony’s third year Muggle Studies essay on boy bands, but it was relaxing, and when Penelope and Celia started singing along, he almost tried to join in.

“I’ve never done shots before,” he admitted, three shots in.

“That’s alright,” Penelope said, “I never did shots until I graduated either.”

“Yes, but,” Zacharias protested, picking up one of the lemons that they’d bought for the tequila shots and staring intently at it.

“But?” Celia prompted.

“I haven’t _actually_ graduated,” Zacharias said. “What are we supposed to do with the lemon?”

Penelope laughed.

Five shots in, and Zacharias was starting to feel drowsy. He pulled his legs up onto the couch and put down his shot glass. “I’m just going to sleep,” he said.

“No you’re not!” Celia said, reaching across and ruffling his hair. Zacharias wondered if friends were supposed to mess up each other’s hair, and if so, why, since Anthony was slightly _more_ than a friend, he had never considered Anthony’s hair in more than cursory detail.

But Anthony wasn’t there for him to consider at all, and Zacharias decided that maybe Celia was right. Sleep could wait.

Innumerable shots later, Celia was lying on the floor with Penelope’s foot nudging her every so often.

“What I don’t understand,” Celia said, “is how _we’re_ single and _he’s_ not.”

Zacharias had been slumped on the couch, trying to work out what the singer on the radio was talking about, when he heard Celia from the corner of his consciousness.

He sat bolt upright. “Fuck!”

“What’s the matter?” Penelope asked.

“I haven’t replied to Anthony’s letter yet,” Zacharias said, frantically getting to his feet, head spinning.

“Wait until the morning,” Celia said. “He probably won’t hate you for it.”

“Fuck,” Zacharias said again, stumbling to the kitchen and reaching across the table for the inkpot, almost knocking it over. He grabbed some parchment and glanced out the window—Epimetheus was waiting patiently on a branch.

 

_Ant,_

_Im srry I havent replied to yr letter yet, busy day at work, minstrieal electns, yll read in daily profit. Ceila + penny over for shots, teqila vodka + frewhisky, dont wrry, we wont make to much of a mess, also aplle blackurrent juice, apple + firewhskey aprently v good._

_conversatin with Celia, question, are you gay? am I gay??? I alwys though you were TOO SOFISTICATED for romans, thats what you alwas said? Im starting to dout that. I think pehaps yr a big liar. then agn Ive convincd at least 6 peple that I have a girlfriend calld antonia. (thats Anthony (yr name) but for girls) so_

_bt I dont thnk it matters. yr probably the best thing thats ever hapened to me so thanks fr that._

_wish y were here etc etc,_

_Z (v drumk) x o xo ooo x x_

 

“Done?” Penelope called. “There’s a vodka shot with your name on it!”

“Just a sec,” Zacharias said. He pulled himself to the window and Epimetheus flew up to perch on the ledge. Zacharias tied the letter to the owl’s leg and sent it off in silence.

“Zach!” Celia shouted. “Get back here, or we’re playing truth and dare without you!”

“I thought it was called truth _or_ dare,” Penelope mused, staring into her shot glass.

“Semantics,” Celia said.

Zacharias rolled over the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling.

“Still tired?” Penelope asked.

“Nah,” Zacharias said, his eyes wide open. He pulled himself upright. “Someone mentioned truth and dare?”

“Truth _or_ dare,” Penelope said.

Celia was a step ahead, already having measured out three shot glasses of vodka. Zacharias felt briefly like he’d regret this in the morning.

“Different rules for drunks,” Celia said. “One person asks a question… or a dare… and if you can’t answer or you’re too chicken to do the dare, you do a shot.”

“Question,” Penelope declared. “First kiss?”

“Third year,” Celia said, “with a Slytherin Chaser in the changing rooms.”

Zacharias had to think for a moment. “A few weeks ago? In the Entrance Hall.”

“My turn!” Celia said. “Question: first _time_?”

As soon as Zacharias realised what Celia meant, he downed his shot and set about pouring another, half-listening to Penelope’s perhaps _too_ detailed explanation about her first post-Percy boyfriend and the Ministry bathrooms on Level Five.

“Your turn, Zach,” Penelope said.

“Question,” he said, although he hadn’t actually thought of anything to ask. He paused. “Er, am I meant to ask something about sex?”

“That’s the idea,” Penelope said, “but it doesn’t mean you can’t get creative.”

“Alright,” Zacharias said. “Question: if you could work in any other job, but only for three hours a day, and only… and you could only wear, er, purple… what would you have for lunch?”

Celia and Penelope exchanged a look before emptying their glasses.

“Question!” Penelope said hastily. “Weirdest dream?”

“I once dreamt that I was going to have a three-way with Viktor Krum and a wheel of cheese,” Celia said. “But Krum cancelled at the last minute so I just ate the cheese and cried.”

“I’ve never had very interesting dreams,” Zacharias said. “I guess… one dream, I woke up and all of the houses had swapped colours, but no-one had told me, so I was the only Hufflepuff in yellow, and everyone thought I was a Gryffindor.”

“I’ll take Viktor,” Penelope said. “Celia wins this round.”

“I didn’t know it was a competition,” Zacharias said.

“I’m changing the subject,” Celia said. “Time for a dare! I dare you both to charm your hair outrageous colours, and wear it to work on Monday.”

“Sounds humiliating,” Zacharias said, looking at his shot glass.

“Sounds like you’re chicken,” Penelope said.

Zacharias caught her eye and smiled slowly, putting down the glass. “You think?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts, and all that! C:


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? I started writing this almost immediately after finishing chapter 12, but then I stalled because I had no idea what to do next. Then a few weeks ago it started coming together... and here we go! I'm really sorry for the wait, but I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Also, many many thanks to my beta reader Taylor, without whom this wouldn't be half as good :'D

Zacharias woke to the sound of an entire Wagnerian orchestra. It was a few moments before he realised that he was in bed, so the orchestra was probably a dream. It was a few  more moments before the sound settled, and he recognised it as a phone ringing.

The phone stopped for a moment, but began to ring again almost immediately—whoever was calling clearly wasn’t going to give up. Zacharias pulled the bedsheets around himself in a cocoon and stumbled to the living room, his head pounding.

“Anthony’s not here,” he grumbled, clutching the phone like if he let go he might lose his grip on reality as well.

The laughter on the other end of the line sent a sharp pain through Zacharias’ temple. “Anthony’s in the Hog’s Head using Aberforth’s phone.”

“Ow,” Zacharias said. “Any chance that Anthony could tone it down a bit? His tenant has the worst hangover in the Northern Hemisphere.”

Anthony laughed again, presumably out of spite. “Sorry, sorry,” he said.

“Why are you in the Hog’s Head so early?” Zacharias asked. “Actually, why are you in the Hog’s Head at all?”

“First of all, it’s midday,” Anthony said. “Second of all, have you forgotten the date?”

Zacharias looked across the room at the clock on the wall. It didn’t _feel_ like midday. “Tenth of October, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Anthony said. “More importantly, it’s the anniversary of our pre-emptive first date. You’re supposed to be taking me out for lunch. This is pretty unimpressive.”

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry,” Zacharias said, picking up on the sarcasm in Anthony’s voice. “Should I just hop on a train?”

“Don’t bother,” Anthony said. “The date’s already ruined.”

Zacharias sighed dramatically, rubbing his eyes. “How am I ever going to fix our relationship?”

There was a pause. “You could, uh, repeat a few of those things you said in your letter,” Anthony said quietly.

“What le—”

Zacharias cut himself off. _That_ letter. “Before you say anything, I don’t remember what I wrote. I was—I was _really_ drunk, Anthony.”

“You mentioned,” Anthony said, his tone returning to normal. “You also said that you’ve convinced six people that you have a girlfriend called Antonia, and that I’m—no, you know what, I’m not saying that part aloud.”

“What did I say?” Zacharias pressed. “You can’t just leave me hanging.”

“You said I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” Anthony said quickly. “Or, actually, you said _probably_ the best, but I like to think that was an understatement.”

“I—”

“There’s more,” Anthony said. Zacharias almost wished he hadn’t got him started. “You signed with four kisses and five hugs—which, by the way, is _so_ rude, because I am _not_ coping well with the suspense—oh, and in answer to your question, yes, I am gay; no, I cannot answer for you.”

“I asked you that?” Zacharias said. “Tactful.”

“No more than usual,” Anthony said. “Are you… are you really that worried about it?”

“About what?” Zacharias asked, adjusting the sheets draped over his right shoulder. It was getting cold in the flat—he’d have to put up some heating charms soon.

“Being gay,” Anthony said. “I mean, if you _aren’t_ , I’m going to need an explanation.”

“I’m not _anything_ ,” Zacharias said. “I’m a bit hungry, but that’s about it.”

“Do you want me to hold the line while you get some food?” Anthony asked, laughing.

Zacharias glanced towards the kitchen. “No,” he said, “I’ll be there for lunch in a few minutes, anyway.”

“If only,” Anthony said.

It struck Zacharias that maybe Anthony had been dropping a few hints that he’d rather they weren’t so far apart. He was still getting used to the idea that Anthony _liked_ him, and the startlingly vivid truth that he really, _really_ liked Anthony. If anything, it just intensified the doubt he’d felt about leaving Hogwarts.

He pushed that thought to the back of his mind.

“Not long until December,” he said, trying to sound reassuring.

“Seventy-one days,” Anthony said. “Not that I’m counting. I mean—shit, of course I’m counting. The train leaves on my birthday. Nineteen on the nineteenth. That’s once-in-a-lifetime.”

“Of _course_ you’re counting,” Zacharias said. “Maybe, er, I can take you out for dinner then? I think I mentioned something along those lines.”

“Yeah, to make up for today,” Anthony said. “Aright. Take me somewhere fancy.”

“Done,” Zacharias said. “Any other requests?”

“Learn to Apparate,” Anthony said. “Now.”

Zacharias sighed. “Why don’t you just come to London?”

Anthony laughed nervously. “I—I asked Professor McGonagall, actually, if I could just—but, she said, since I’m Head Boy, I have to set the standard, no matter the, uh, circumstances.”

“Or you could come without her permission,” Zacharias said, knowing full well that he was pushing his luck, and that Anthony would never. Bending the rules as a Prefect was one thing, but Anthony took being Head Boy fairly seriously.

“Do _not_ tempt me, Zacharias Smith. I will do it. I’ll bloody Apparate.”

Zacharias felt himself grinning before he fully registered why. “The fact that you’re considering it is enough for me,” he said. “I’ll see you in December.”

“Ouch,” Anthony said. “Is that an ending I hear?”

Zacharias looked at the clock—it was still roughly midday. “No,” he said, “not unless you have somewhere else to be.”

He could practically hear Anthony shrugging. “Nowhere else,” he said. “I’m pretty sure everyone else can entertain themselves without me around to be the life of the party.”

“Yeah,” Zacharias said, “and then who would entertain me?”

Anthony laughed, and Zacharias felt another pang in his temple. He hadn’t been this hungover since Hufflepuff had smashed Gryffindor, 320-60, in sixth year, and Megan had started a round of “take a drink every time you think about McLaggen hitting a Bludger into Potter’s head.”

His mouth felt dry. Picking up the phone so that the chord wouldn’t stretch, he shuffled in the direction of the kitchen to get a glass of water. The cable to the wall wouldn’t stretch far enough, though, so Zacharias settled for leaning against the entrance to the kitchen. Water could wait.

When he saw his reflection in the oven, he nearly dropped the phone.

“Are you okay?” Anthony asked. “You sound like you’re choking.”

“I have to go,” Zacharias said. “I think I’m having a panic attack.”

“Is everything alright? Do you need me to call St. Mungo’s?”

“My hair is purple,” Zacharias said. “My hair is fucking _purple_.”

This time, when Anthony laughed, Zacharias thought he might cry. “I _get_ that you have a nice laugh, but now is _not_ the time,” he said.

“Was that a compliment?” Anthony asked. “Have we hit the point in our relationship where you’re complimenting me?”

“Ugh,” Zacharias said, running a hand through his fringe. “Yes, I suppose so, but—”

“I’m trying to distract you,” Anthony said, “so that you stop panicking. Uh, I’m sure your hair looks good in any colour… ?”

“Not helping,” Zacharias said.

Last night came clearer into focus—Zacharias remembered Celia’s dare, which was well and good for her, because her hair was already various unnatural colours. He remembered leaning over the edge of the couch and attempting to braid Penelope’s hair, which she’d charmed a vivid magenta. Of course, the drunk braiding had ended in failure, but the hair colour charms clearly had not.

“Should I let you get on with that, then?” Anthony asked.

A few things came to mind— _don’t go; I haven’t talked to anyone my own age in days; I know I’m hungover and having a panic attack but maybe you’ll forgive me?_ —but instead he sighed.

“I guess so,” he said. “You’ve got your own life to get on with, anyway.”

“Hmm,” Anthony said. “Or, we could just talk for the rest of the afternoon.”

The rest of the afternoon lasted until Anthony was physically dragged away from the phone by Michael—“No offense, Smith, but we don’t want our Head Boy getting a one-track mind.” Zacharias wouldn’t admit it, but he was almost relieved to get off the phone, despite how much he thought he’d wanted a conversation. He’d never spent so long talking to just one person. If that was an integral part of being in a relationship… well, maybe he’d have to work at it.

And then there was the other matter. Zacharias’ violently violet hair was taunting him. The second he put down the phone, his next stop was the bathroom to assess the damage.

It was pretty bad.

Zacharias’ first thought was to call Penelope, who’d also fallen victim to Celia’s dare. But as more details of the previous night leaked back into his mind, he could vaguely remember Celia saying something about wearing the coloured hair to work on Monday. Maybe… maybe she’d phrased it differently. Zacharias clung to the hope that he was misremembering for a few  moments, but on the off-chance that he wasn’t, he would be a poor friend indeed if he gave in and cast _Finite_ before Monday was through.

So on Monday, in an outstanding display of unprofessional conduct, Zacharias arrived at the Ministry of Magic with vividly purple hair. The only people in the office were Celia and Thaddeus, so Zacharias would have some time to prepare his line for Lucretia. He wondered vaguely where Maurene was, but at least she wasn’t there to call him a “bad egg.”

“ _Someone_ had a big weekend,” Thaddeus commented, only briefly looking up from his desk.

“Better than having the social prowess of a damp, mouldy sponge,” Zacharias shot back.

Since Zacharias had insulted his way into the Daily Prophet headquarters, he was finding himself more and more inclined to be active, rather than passive, in his opinions. He’d fallen into a bad habit of talking under his breath and behind people’s backs after the Ginny Weasley Quidditch Incident, which had shown him all the good it did to voice his thoughts. Now, at times like this—throwing around his harshest language like it was nothing—he felt more and more like himself. He felt like he was glowing as Thaddeus looked up again to glare at him, and tilted his chin in response.

“Play nice, boys,” Celia said. “I did his hair myself.”

Zacharias narrowed his eyes at her. “You did?”

“Zach, you’d done over fifteen shots,” Celia said. “You could barely stand, let alone wave your wand. Lucky for you, I’m a competent drunk.”

“Lucky,” Zacharias repeated. “Sure.”

“Remind me to never come to your parties,” Thaddeus said mildly.

“Like you’re invited,” Celia said.

Zacharias closed his mouth, feeling stupid; she’d stolen his line. Playing it cool, he put his bag down at his desk, straightening his inkwell as he sat.

“Oh, yeah,” Celia said. “There’s a press conference in about an hour. Weasley’s going to introduce the candidates who’ve decided to run, and Lucretia will be on hand to answer any questions.”

“So I can just lock myself in here for the rest of the day and make myself useless?” Zacharias asked.

There was a laugh from the office’s entrance. Zacharias turned sharply to see Lucretia standing there, leaning against the doorframe with the sort of look on her face that did not speak of someone who knew how to laugh.

“Nice try,” she said. “Since you’ve decided to make a fool of yourself already, Smith, you can come with me. I’ve got a special job for someone beyond the point of embarrassment.”

“If that’s what you’re looking for, I’d suggest Thaddeus,” Zacharias said.

“No rest for the wicked,” Lucretia said. “Get up.”

Zacharias groaned, pushing his chair back. “See you in the next life, Celia.”

“Try not to die _too_ much,” Celia said. “I was thinking of doing drinks again this Friday.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Zacharias said followed Lucretia out of the office. She did not look like she was in a good mood. He was getting better at picking up on her moods, and this one read like thunder on a summer afternoon.

“Should I ask what my punishment is going to be?” Zacharias asked, half-heartedly aiming for a joke.

“Ten years hard labour,” Lucretia said. “And a bit of backroom briefing.”

Of course—being in the “backroom” meant that Zacharias’ unprofessional hair wouldn’t be on display to the public. Maybe, he thought, Lucretia would just stick him in an office with some paperwork and he’d be able to while away the day in relative peace. Nothing was ever so simple with Lucretia, though.

Lucretia led the way to the lift, folding her arms while they waited for it to arrive.

“There are five candidates—other than the incumbent Minister—running for election. Of those, three have never been through this before. Part of our job in PR is briefing them on how this press conference is going to work and getting them through the election period with minimal potential for catastrophe.”

“So, I’ll just be taking notes… ?” Zacharias asked hopefully.

“You can start by listening carefully to what I say to them,” Lucretia said, “and then you can talk them through journalistic etiquette, since you’re so well acquainted with the Daily Prophet and its columnists. Let them know exactly how to handle the press.”

Zacharias frowned. “I’ve been in this job for under a month,” he said. “How do you expect me to—”

The lift doors opened, and Lucretia stepped in. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

She was in better spirits than usual, Zacharias realised. He hadn’t miscalculated—rather, the very fact that she needed to be in a bad mood that lifted her spirits. Zacharias found that surprisingly admirable. He wondered in passing if he’d be able to weaponise his own anger, and whether that might come useful in the briefing.

As he followed Lucretia into the lift, it hit him that his attitude in the briefing would entirely depend on the candidates.

“Can I get a run-down on the other candidates before I have to deal with them?”

“Always so needy,” Lucretia said. “Well, you know about Tiberius Wimple. He’s run before, although never with such gusto, so he won’t be at this briefing. Neither will Johanna Mills. She’s from the Muggle Liaison Office, and she’s famous for the work she’s done in improving Muggle relations within Magical Britain—a strong contender, definitely.”

The lift clattered down a few floors, coming to a stop at Level Eight. Lucretia pushed her way through a deluge of new memos towards a corridor that Zacharias could swear he’d never seen before.

“Then we have the three you’re about to meet. Wisteria Clatworthy is a big name in the Department of Magical Games and Sports and will be pushing her own agenda. Kelvin Orpington is descended from Evangeline Orpington, and unfortunately he thinks that means he’ll be just as competent a Minister as his great-grandmother, but he’s been in the same job in the Department of Magical Transportation for almost fifteen years. He’s not going anywhere. And finally, Giorgina Pavoni from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She’s an old friend of mine, so I can’t say much, but you’ll work it out for yourself.”

It was a lot to take in. Zacharias ran through the names in his head as they approached an unmarked room at the end of the corridor. Lucretia didn’t wait to knock—she pushed her palm against the door and let it swing ahead of her, revealing a long room with a wooden table running down the middle and generous red chairs lining either side. At the head of the table there was a chair clad in the same red fabric, built like a throne. What was most striking about the room, though, were the walls, plastered from floor to ceiling with portraits of previous Ministers of Magic. Zacharias cast his eye to the latest portrait and noted that there was no evidence of Pius Thicknesse’s short reign, or Shacklebolt’s.

If he didn’t win this election, he might never have one.

At the far end of the table, clustered on one side of the throne chair, were the three new candidates. Orpington was easy to pick out, eyeing the throne with a look of undisguised longing. Zacharias guessed that the broad woman in lilac robes was Clatworthy, and that the frowning woman who looked like she could easily be Lucretia’s friend would be Pavoni.

“You kept us waiting,” Clatworthy said. “The press conference is in—”

“Correct,” Lucretia said. “I know you’ve never done anything like this before, Clatworthy, so I’ll keep it simple for you: you are not the Minister yet and you might never be. Don’t expect to be treated like royalty.”

“Well said,” Pavoni commented. She tented her fingers and leant back in her seat, her smile a bit on the smug side.

Clatworthy shot a downright filthy glance at Pavoni. A few of the portraits tutted and muttered in response, but Orpington kept his gaze on the throne. This promised to be interesting.

“Before you three are allowed to face the press,” Lucretia continued, “I’ve arranged for our resident Prophet liaison to brief you in the fine art of dealing with journalists.”

Zacharias narrowed his eyes at Lucretia. Either he’d just been given a promotion, or he was in deeper shit than he’d realised.

“Smith? When you’re ready.”

“Right,” Zacharias said. All three candidates and most of the portraits were regarding him with the sort of looks that, at Hogwarts, would have meant five weeks of detention and Hogsmeade privileges revoked for the foreseeable future. He steeled himself against their gazes and pressed on, walking down the other side of the table so that he could face them.

“There’s only one rule,” he began, “because making rules invariably ends in breaking rules. But don’t think that this means you get off easy.”

“So what’s the rule?” Orpington asked, his eyes on the ceiling.

“No cracks in the hull,” Zacharias said, turning to one of Lucretia’s metaphors. “You are a barely-seaworthy vessel about to sail the Atlantic. It’ll be a miracle if you make it to the other side. If you spring a leak, you’re dead in the water.”

Clatworthy folded her arms. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Don’t give _anything_ away,” Zacharias said. It was the one thing he’d learnt from his limited experience dealing with journalists like Rita Skeeter: they’d pounce on scraps like starved lions, twisting and tearing them until they made a good story. And his experience with journalists like Penelope had taught him that they were _always_ prepared.

“Journalists can tell when you’re bullshitting,” he said. Even though he’d managed to pull a fast one on Skeeter, he figured that he was probably the exception to the rule. “So it’s better not to give them anything to work with. If they ask you something about your private life, answer briefly and change the subject.”

“And,” Lucretia interrupted, “if I hear the words ‘no comment’ leave any of your mouths, I will personally see to it that your lips are sewn shut.”

“Is this the Ministry or the mafia?” Orpington said under his breath.

Zacharias caught Lucretia’s eye. She nodded.

“Don’t be smart,” he said. “You don’t want to find out how good I am with a needle and thread.”

“On that note,” Lucretia said, “try not to spend too long on personal questions. Nobody knows who you are, so they’ve got nothing to go off. They _will_ ask you about your private life. Remember: no cracks in the hull.”

“This all seems rather obvious,” Pavoni said, more to Lucretia than Zacharias.

Zacharias answered anyway. “If you get complacent, you won’t notice when things take a turn for the worse.”

After all, he’d spent his life being complacent. It was only when something jerked him back into reality—like Tracey yelling at him or Anthony kissing him—that he realised how oblivious he could be. One too many times he’d steered his ship into choppy waters and sprung more than just a leak. Now, though— _now_ , he knew how to handle himself.

In the suspension of time between the words leaving his mouth and the next sound made in the room, Zacharias realised that he should never have doubted himself for coming to the Ministry, even if it meant leaving behind his friends and Anthony.

“Complacent, eh?” Orpington mimicked. “Weren’t you less, uh, _Scottish_ when you gave that seminar on the Post-War Wizarding World?”

 _Well_ , Zacharias wanted to say, _I wouldn’t have tried to put on that stupid accent if Linwood hadn’t forced me_.

“One thing I’ve noticed while working with Smith,” Lucretia said, “is that he waxes regional when he’s losing patience. 

Zacharias allowed himself a laugh. Maybe it would spook the candidates a bit.

“Moving on,” Lucretia continued, “don’t talk for too long. The journalists are there for Shacklebolt more than the rest of you. Let the length of your answers reflect that.”

“And don’t answer if the question isn’t directed at you,” Zacharias said. Lucretia nodded in what was presumably approval of his improvised advice.                                           

“Are we all clear and ready?” Lucretia asked, casting a glance at the door.

“Of course,” Pavoni said. Clatworthy inclined her head in the ghost of a nod. Orpington just sighed.

Lucretia stared at them. “Well, go on, then. Piss off.”

As Zacharias made to follow the candidates, Lucretia signalled for him to stop. “Not you, Smith. I don’t want you attracting undue attention at the conference. You stick out enough on a normal day.”

“Because I’m tall?” Zacharias hazarded.

“Not quite,” Lucretia said. “Because you never slouch.”

Zacharias moved to square his shoulders, but he couldn’t pull himself up much straighter than he already was.

“Don’t be self-conscious,” Lucretia said, her voice uncharacteristically friendly. “It’s why I hired you.”

When the rest of the party left the room, Zacharias stayed behind, turning to look over the portraits behind him.

“Impressive,” a witch said. The plaque beneath her portrait identified her as Wilhelmina Tuft.

Just as magical photographs made Zacharias uncomfortable, he had never quite accustomed himself to the talking portraits. He didn’t like the idea that magic could capture the essence of a person in a particular moment and preserve it even after their death. He particularly didn’t like the idea of talking to someone who wasn’t really putting any thought into it, someone who _couldn’t_.

“And I don’t just mean your hair!” Tuft continued. “Although I’ve seen some rather ostentatious fashions in my time, that speech then was rather something else.”

“Er, thanks,” Zacharias said. Why was he even bothering? It wasn’t as though the portrait of Wilhelmina Tuft could feel the impact of anything he said.

“I presume you work in the Department of Public Relations?” Tuft asked. “They weren’t much back in my day, but I hear things have progressed.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Zacharias said, looking away. “I’ve only just started working here.”

“How old are you, then?”

“Eighteen,” Zacharias said.

Tuft whistled, and a few other portraits whispered amongst themselves. Zacharias didn’t like the idea that they’d been listening in.

“Eighteen,” said the portrait two across from Tuft. “You look just like my grandson did when he was eighteen.”

If Zacharias had a pound for every one of his mother’s distant relatives who’d ever told him he looked just like their whoever did when they were whatever years old, he’d be rich enough to skip out on his aunt’s painful Christmas lunches and hearing those comments in the first place.

“I’m—er, I’m going to leave now,” he told the portraits.

His long strides took him to the door before he could focus on anything else. The portraits had started talking loudly amongst themselves, and Zacharias didn’t want a full-blown existential crisis before lunch.

Down the other end of the corridor he found some solace in watching the press conference from a distance. As they’d been instructed, the inexperienced candidates were letting Shacklebolt do most of the talking, although Zacharias got a bit of joy out of watching Clatworthy bouncing up and down on her heels, keen to take centre stage.

It was much nicer being behind the scenes, he thought. Some people would always have the constitution for making themselves part of the public interest, but Zacharias would much rather work from the sidelines. He didn’t mind if he never got any credit, if he was known but never noticed. Just knowing that his words had made something happen was more than enough.

 _This_ was where he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts with a comment! (Or you can reach me [on tumblr](http://memordes.tumblr.com), whereupon you are most heartily encouraged to ask me about Zacharias Smith.)
> 
> (Side note: I originally planned to get this fic done in about 15-18 chapters. There is no way that is going to happen at this rate. We're looking at 20, minimum. I will most likely get carried away. Buckle up.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been way too long. Embarrassingly long, and I owe every single person reading this a huge apology (unless you've just read this for the first time, in which case, carry on, nothing to see here). Basically, I was finishing my degree last year and I lost my focus for anything longer than a substantial one-shot. But now I'm back! Super back! Back with a vengeance! I have to finish Before Destruction first, but I prioritised this chapter just so I'd have something to show for New And Improved 2016 Memorde.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta Taylor, especially for sticking with me despite the nearly-a-year-long hiatus! This fic wouldn't be anywhere near as consistent without her!

As the first week of the election campaign swept through the Ministry like a tornado, Zacharias got caught up in something arguably more difficult: on the coming Friday, he’d be giving a seminar to his colleagues on Level One. This was different to all the other seminars he’d given, because he’d gotten to know most of the people working on Level One, and they knew him by  his Scottish accent, not whatever rubbish it was that he spoke when he gave his seminars.

To compensate, he worked harder than ever. He spent hours in front of the mirror practicing his accent, until it was midnight and the words leaving his mouth lost all meaning, and Zacharias lost his focus on the campaign.

This, it turned out, was a dreadful error on his part, although he wouldn’t realise it until well after the seminar.

On the morning of the seminar, a blustery Friday in the middle of October, Zacharias woke late and egregiously underprepared. It wasn’t that he’d overslept—he’d played enough Quidditch to know what a difference it made to be well-rested—but he woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a double-decker bus. He didn’t even have the energy for a jog; he just ran himself a freezing cold shower and thought through a few exciting ways he could fake his own death.

In the end, though, his annoyingly Hufflepuff sense of duty won out. He put on a scarf to brave the wind and sequestered himself in a corner of the tube where he almost had enough room to stand upright. The ride felt faster than usual, as if someone was swiftly delivering him to his doom. Maybe, if he was lucky, Lucretia wouldn’t make him suffer a drawn-out punishment.

The Atrium practically vibrated with human presence when he arrived. Zacharias, a self-appointed commander of crowds, made short work of fording the chasm, but found another obstacle waiting for him by the entrance to Level One.

“Smith. You’re early.” Lucretia had her most threatening expression firmly fixed in place. Zacharias wondered whether the Ministry had passed some new law in the dead of night,  making it a crime to come in early.

“Am I?” he said. “Hadn’t noticed.”

Shrugging, Lucretia turned her back and walked towards her office. “Follow me,” she said. “I have a job for you.”

It took a moment for Zacharias’ feet to catch up to his brain, but he got the feeling that Lucretia didn’t mind if people trailed behind her. “Er,” he began, “you know I’m giving a seminar in a bit, right?”

“I’m _coming_ to your seminar, Smith,” she said. “I like to think I’m even-handed. I never give my staff more work than I know they can handle.”

Zacharias shifted a little as Lucretia stopped to open her office door. It was rare to hear her sound so self-aware, and he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with it. He tried not to think too hard about it.

“Technically, everyone in this building is _your staff_ ,” he said, more to lighten his own thoughts than anything else.

Lucretia smiled over her shoulder. “True. Some staff are more important than others, though.”

“What, am I teacher’s pet now?” Zacharias joked, closing the door behind him.

“Something like that,” Lucretia said. “In all seriousness, Smith, my job is perhaps the most important in the Ministry. It’s not hubris that makes me say that—it’s fact. And it takes a certain sort of person to recognise that they’re important, and to use that power properly. People like us are hard to find, and we _have_ to find each other. So I collect people for the PR team who are the right kind of ruthless. HR, too. And from that pool of people, _I_ will choose the next Chief of Staff.”

She spoke firmly, arms folded. It was as though her determination was buzzing off her in waves, and Zacharias had no comeback for that. He opened his mouth and closed it again, feeling kind of dumbstruck in the face of what he thought might be praise.

“Anyway,” Lucretia continued more calmly, “You’re clearly aware that you show promise. The trick is not to let it turn you into a different person.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Zacharias said, feeling a little blank.

“Good,” Lucretia said. “So back to the job I have for you. You won’t like it.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Well, maybe you will like it,” Lucretia said. “But no matter what you think, you’re not allowed to tell a single person about this, do you understand? This is unofficial, between you and me.”

 _Trust_ was another Hufflepuff fault. It was only then that Zacharias realised just how much Lucretia trusted him. _Don’t let it get to your head_ , he reminded himself. “I’ll swear an Unbreakable Vow, if you like,” he said.

Lucretia gave him a grim smile. “That won’t be necessary. I know you’ll do as I ask.” She paused, picking up a partially-folded paper aeroplane from her desk. “Did you know that no-one sends me memos?”

“I noticed,” Zacharias said. “They keep their distance.”

“Exactly.” Lucretia’s lips pursed in dissatisfaction. “People know that I don’t need to be told things. I discover things on my own. So you can imagine my surprise when I arrived at the office to find a memo waiting patiently at my door.”

“Who sent it?” Zacharias asked.

Lucretia’s frown turned positively sour. “I don’t know.”

The creeping sense of dread that Zacharias had been feeling all morning finally caught up to him, and his stomach swooped like he was free-falling. Lucretia Horner, the Ministry of Magic’s Chief of Staff, made it her business to know _everything_. To her, knowledge wasn’t just power, it was a way of life. She collected secrets like other people collected chocolate frog cards. If there was something she _didn’t_ know… the thought made Zacharias uneasy.

“It’s typed,” Lucretia went on, “so there’s no way of telling who wrote it. I tried to charm it but there was no trace of anyone at the other end of this communiqué. I stopped short of taking it to the Department of Mysteries. _No-one can know about this_.”

She extended her hand, offering the memo to Zacharias. “Read it.”

Zacharias took it. At a glance, you wouldn’t be able to tell that this was a Ministry memo. It was a perfect imitation of a scrap torn from the Daily Prophet. There were two things that clued Zacharias in on it being fake: the fact that one side was blank, and the date.

“Sixteenth of November, 1998,” he read out. “A month from today.” He looked up from the memo. “This is a _threat_.”

“Keep reading,” Lucretia said grimly.

The headline read “SHACKLEBOLT SCANDAL!” in large print. The article detailed the decline of Kinglsey Shacklebolt’s election campaign, destabilised by accusations of irresponsible spending and shocking revelations about his private life. And then it stopped, midway through a sentence, without any elaboration on the precise nature of these revelations.

“Is it true?” Zacharias asked. The moment the words left his mouth, he realised it was a stupid question.

“Of course it’s not true,” Lucretia said. “Shacklebolt might be the cleanest politician the Ministry’s ever had. That doesn’t matter, though—they’ll make it true.”

“Whoever _they_ are,” Zacharias said, looking back down at the article. It read a bit like Rita Skeeter’s sensational style, although she had a certain flair for words that was missing in this. The author had all the right keywords in all the right phrases, but the bits in between fell flat. Zacharias wondered when he’d become so familiar with the way Skeeter wrote, at what precise point he’d become so immersed in his job that this way of thinking became natural.

Lucretia folded her arms. “Whoever they are, they’re not taking this seriously, and that’ll be how we take them apart. They’re an amateur if they think that one month’s warning isn’t more than enough time for us to dismantle this scare campaign.”

Zacharias was almost afraid to ask what his special job had to do with it. Thankfully, Lucretia brought it up first.

“On to your job,” she said, “I’ll be working on finding out who’s behind this, but in the event that I’m unsuccessful—”

“Unlikely,” Zacharias put in.

“—well, if it happens,” Lucretia continued, “I want a backup plan. That’s where you come in. Do you remember how you convinced me you were the right person for this job?”

“I told you I can lie,” Zacharias said. A lie in itself—he wasn’t so much an excellent liar as a compulsive one, but he got the feeling Lucretia knew that without him having to tell her.

“Right now, I need that skill more than ever. If I can’t stop an attack on Minister Shacklebolt, then I can stop the other candidates. I need you to go digging—I can’t do it; they all know me too well. Find out the absolute _worst_ about them. I want blackmail material, Smith, and I want it to be an owl away from Cyrus Klinkhammer and his political correspondents at all times. And if you can’t find anything— _make it up_.”

It was a lot to take in. The responsibility was tremendous, and unlike anything Zacharias had been trusted with in his life. But he remembered what Lucretia had said about hand-picking her successor; how _good_ he felt doing this job. And he knew he could do this.

“That’s all,” Lucretia said, the urgency vanished from her voice. “I’ll see you at the seminar.”

 _This conversation never happened_ , Zacharias completed mentally.

Even though he’d been early, he found himself running late after his meeting with Lucretia—“Just some last minute details about the seminar today,” he lied when asked. Rushing again, he hastily read over his notes in the bathroom just across from the Level One communal meeting area.

And then, a miracle: he stepped through the door into a room full of expectant faces, and he felt that shift in his attitude, the same thing that had happened when he first visited the Prophet headquarters. He closed his eyes for a second longer than a blink, letting the sounds of conversation wash over him. When he opened them again, the room was quiet.

From the back of the room, Percy Weasley caught his eye. Zacharias gave him a smug smile. Not even Percy’s ever-present hauteur could stop him now.

Zacharias’ favourite part of his seminars was the backstory. When he got to talk about himself, detailing how he’d fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, he felt like he was up on a stage in some grand theatre. He’d only been in a play once, at his second primary school. He was cast as a tree—his reward for being the tallest in the class—and spent most of the time standing around and trying to stop his sandwich board from falling off. It hadn’t been particularly exciting. But he thought that if he’d been given a chance, he might’ve made an excellent actor. There was a lot to be said for standing in front of a crowd and pretending to be someone else.

Usually, he coped with the scrutiny by ignoring it entirely. He stared at the walls, occasionally sweeping his eyes over the audience so it would seem like he was addressing them. But he couldn’t get distracted, else his accent would slip.

Towards the end of his speech, though, he made the mistake of catching the look on Percy’s face. It was a look Zacharias recognised from his mother, the face she made when he said something even mildly subversive over Christmas lunch, and she had to restrain herself from making a scene. Percy had his lips pressed close together,  nostrils flaring. And with his bright red hair, Percy stuck out—there was no Zacharias could ignore him.

While he took questions at the end of the seminar, he thought about how to confront Percy. And he would have to, because sorting out dissent among the ranks didn’t just apply to to the Minister and his rivals. The best case scenario was Percy coming up to him, fists clenched at his sides and steam coming out of his ears like a comic book character. But Percy seemed to be taking a passive-aggressive approach to this, stomping off towards his office with a cloud of memos following him.

It wasn’t hard for Zacharias to catch him, getting an arm through Percy’s door before he could close it (ignoring the few people with _even more_ questions for him after the seminar).

“What do _you_ want?” Percy asked, the scowl still firmly fixed on his face.

Zacharias made a point of smiling as sweetly as he could manage. “Just a quick word.”

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Percy said, walking across the room. He waved his wand, and the guest chair slid out from under the desk. Percy sat on his side of the desk, but Zacharias stayed standing.

Percy’s office was a little different to the others Zacharias had seen. It was smaller, and, in a way, less professional. The desk was covered with frames so eclectic that they could’ve come from pound shops, and although Zacharias couldn’t see the fronts, he’d bet a good few galleons that they were all family photos. There were papers all over the desk, too, with Daily Prophets from years back—a messy spread that no doubt made sense only to Percy.

“Alright,” Percy said, “have it your way. What do you want?”

“I want to know why you spent my entire seminar looking like you wanted to hex me,” Zacharias said, getting straight to the point.

That _look_ returned to Percy’s face. “I remembered you,” he said simply. “Prefect, was it? In the Hog’s Head during the Battle of Hogwarts.”

Zacharias shrugged. If he made it seem like this didn’t matter, then it wouldn’t matter. “Yes, and?”

“You quite _clearly_ didn’t fight in the battle, as you say you did,” Percy said, exasperated. “I’m a little confused as to why you’re making a living telling _lies_.”

“I’m not telling lies that count,” Zacharias said. “Everything I say about the Ministry’s extensive rebuilding scheme is true, and I think you’ll find that all my background details check out.”

“Except the ones about yourself,” Percy said drily.

“Except the ones about myself,” Zacharias agreed.

Percy heaved a sigh, leaning back in his seat. “Well, I’m not happy about it, but I don’t suppose there’s anything that can be done. The job’s yours, lies or otherwise.”

“Linwood knows, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Zacharias said. Sometimes he forgot that Linwood was technically his boss, given he spent so much time dealing with Lucretia.

“That is neither a surprise nor a consolation,” Percy said. “No less than I would expect from Linwood.”

Zacharias rather imagined that Percy’s use of “Linwood” for “Call Me Tim” stemmed from the same reluctance for familiarity as his own.

“Have you worked with him long?” he asked, out of curiosity.

Straight away, Percy’s frown returned. “You could say that,” he said. “Linwood was one of the first people I encountered when I began working here, much like yourself. He’s always had an air of the—well, never mind.”

“What, worried you’re saying too much?” Zacharias joked. “I can be discreet.”

“The fact that you even see the need need to make a comment like that is enough cause for concern,” Percy said. “No, thank you, I shall not say any more. But whether or not Linwood knows, you must know it’s my duty to report your—”

“Let me stop you right there,” Zacharias said. “I’m not going to spin you something about the greater good, but we both know there’s a _reason_ for these seminars, and that there’s a reason _I’m_ the one giving them. The greater good, in this case, is _me_ , being employed. If you balls this up for me, I’ll—”

“What, you’ll have me fired?” Percy smirked. “You can’t intimidate me, Smith. For all your talk, I’ve been doing this longer than you have. If it’s your word against mine, they’ll take mine.”

Zacharias had always liked thinking on his feet, liked the challenge. It was why he took to Quidditch so quickly. Everyone said that being a Seeker was the hardest role, but Zacharias always thought that Chasers took that title. Chasers not only had to follow the Quaffle, but they had to follow the _other_ Chasers. There was a degree of unpredictability that didn’t come from some stupid charmed ball flying around of its own will—it was _human error_. That fascinated Zacharias, and in turn his own fascination engrossed him—how he could get so caught up in observing other people, despite being the very opposite of a “people person.”

Playing politics was a little bit like Quidditch, in that way. You weren’t just focused on your own movement. You had to keep tabs on everyone around you. That was what Lucretia meant when she’d asked him to dig up as much as he could on the Ministerial candidates—it wasn’t about who you knew, but _what_ you knew. It wasn’t about coming up with a convincing story, but knowing enough to _make_ your story convincing.

And if it was one word against another, that was what it came down to.

“Ah yes,” Zacharias said, “the omniscient _they_. Who exactly are you planning on reporting this to, Weasley? Lucretia knows, too, by the way. So will you go to Minister Shacklebolt? Don’t you think this is a little _parochial_ for someone like him?”

Percy opened his mouth, already looking indignant, but Zacharias wouldn’t give him the chance.

“No, don’t interrupt. I’m not done yet. Let’s say you take this complaint to the Minister. He’s in limbo at the moment, so he can’t do anything official, and he wouldn’t risk firing me with Lucretia and Linwood on my side. So he waits until he’s re-elected—which he _will_ be—and in the meantime, you’ve left a gaping time period which I can use to plead my case.”

“All you’re saying is that it’s advantageous to wait,” Percy said. “In which case, thank you for the advice.”

“If you’d let me finish,” Zacharias said, “I was talking about pleading my case.”

“‘It’s okay, they asked me to lie,’ is hardly evidence in your favour,” Percy said.

“But I’m sure the Minister will be none too thrilled that you used my position as a Prophet liaison to reconnect with your ex during office hours,” Zacharias snapped. He almost tripped over his words in his haste to get them out. He was sick of dancing around, trading threats. If Percy Weasley didn’t respond to intimidation, then he’d damn well respond to blackmail.

Percy paled, but held his ground. “You know very well that’s not what happened. There was no-one forcing you to meet with Penny on office hours.”

“But I did,” Zacharias said simply. “And if I asked her, she would back me up. She doesn’t know what you said, only what I told her at the time.”

“Which was _what_?” Percy said.

“Exactly what you told me,” Zacharias said, wracking his memory. “That you were sorry you’d parted on bad terms, and you wanted to repair your friendship, or some shite.”

Percy had nothing to say to that.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Zacharias said. “I’m not going to blackmail you just so I can have a giggle. But I _will_ do it, if I need to.”

It was a long while before Percy spoke again. “I suppose congratulations are in order, then,” he said. “You’re even more wedded to your job than I was, at your age.”

“We’re nothing alike,” Zacharias said.

“On the contrary,” Percy said, laughing a bit, “we’re more alike than you’ll ever know.”

Zacharias remembered what Penelope had told him about Percy betraying his family for his job. At the time, it had struck him that she’d hate him if she knew he was essentially doing the same. Now, he thought he understood.

“In that case,” he said, “we don’t need to be enemies. You keep your mouth shut and I’ll keep mine.”

“I rather thought that was the point of this conversation,” Percy said. “Otherwise, you’ve just been wasting my time.”

“We don’t need to be enemies,” Zacharias reiterated, “but it might be mutually beneficial if we were to become friends, after a fashion.”

Now, Percy gave a full-bodied laugh. Zacharias didn’t see what was so amusing. This was _politics_.

“Favours, that sort of thing?” Percy asked. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

It was a big question, especially because Zacharias still wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted. He knew he had to get information on the candidates, but he didn’t know what he’d find—or rather, he _wouldn’t_ know until he started looking.

“You’re close to Minister Shacklebolt,” he said slowly, his thoughts still forming. “If he so much as mentions one of the other Ministerial candidates, tell me. I don’t care if it’s just what they had for lunch.”

“So you’re digging up dirt on the hopefuls,” Percy said, rubbing his chin in a manner that seemed contrived to look as erudite as possible.

“I wouldn’t have put it half so eloquently,” Zacharias said sarcastically.

“Dare I ask _why_?”

Zacharias knew he couldn’t take too long to reply, because that would raise suspicions. He said the first thing that came to mind: “So I can best liaise with the Prophet.”

“Clever,” Percy said. “Always have to watch for the clever ones.”

“I meant what I said, though,” Zacharias said.

“So this is where I ask you to do something for _me_ ,” Percy said.

Zacharias felt an involuntary shudder at the thought, but this was only fair. Reliability, trust, equality—those stupid things he kept getting drawn back towards, no matter how much they actively worked against the unscrupulous nature he was trying to cultivate. Jaw clenched, he asked, “What do you want?”

“I suppose it’s pointless to ask you to put in a good word with Penny,” Percy said idly, pulling out a desk drawer.

“Don’t even try,” Zacharias said.

Percy nodded. From his drawer, he withdrew two scrolls of parchment and slid them across the table. “How’s your grammar?”

For want of anything to say, Zacharias stared at him.

“Perfect,” Percy said, as though they’d just had a whole conversation, “then you’ll have no trouble proof-reading these press releases.”

“That’s all?” Zacharias asked, relieved. “Two press releases?”

“Two more tomorrow,” Percy said. “Then…  we’ll see.”

Well, a bit of editing—how bad could it be? Still, Zacharias left Percy’s office with the uneasy feeling that he was somehow being played. Percy was certainly smart enough to string him along and pull the rug out from beneath his feet, but what he’d land in beneath the rug was anyone’s guess.

Either way, Zacharias couldn’t afford to sit around anymore. He spent the afternoon proof-reading the press releases—Dull and Duller, as he nicknamed them—and left early, claiming a headache. By the time he was back at Anthony’s flat, he was surprised to find that he _did_ have a headache, a pounding in his temples that drove him straight to the couch. It was too short for him to lie down properly, and he had yet to transfigure it longer, but it did the trick.

That afternoon, falling asleep to forget the scrolls he’d find on his desk the next day, and that evening—busying himself with rereading the Prophet—was the first time since arriving in London that Zacharias had forgotten to write to Anthony.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat to me in the comments or yell at me [on tumblr](http://memordes.tumblr.com)! I'm super excited by the direction I'm taking this fic (which was, admittedly, part of why I slumped: because I was still working that out) so I'm not saying get hype, but... !!!
> 
> (Also, like, this chapter is so self-indulgent. Writing my two faves trying to out-politics each other was like a dream.)


	15. Chapter 15

From the other side of the pile of newspapers on Zacharias’ desk, he could just see across to Thaddeus walking into the office… carrying more newspapers. Zacharias had been lost in thought all morning, flipping through personnel files and making notes on the ministerial candidates. He wasn’t technically  supposed to have them , but the Ministry archivist had taken a liking to him since his afternoon down there, and so he let Zacharias come and go as he pleased.

“This one’s Luxembourg,” Thaddeus said, dumping a newspaper on top of the pile. “And this one is Turkmenistan. They’re really having a field day with the election.”

“Remind me again why we’re keeping these on my desk?” Zacharias asked.

“It’s simple,” Maureen said, her voice sanctimonious, “you’re Lucretia’s protégé. We want you to get as much experience dealing with international news, instead of just the Prophet.”

It was probably their idea of good-natured workplace bullying—just a bit of fun—but while Zacharias was working on Lucretia’s confidential project,  it was just a pain in the arse. Even Celia was ribbing him a little—everyone was, even Helen the guard, because no-one could resist a good bit of gossip. And once again, Zacharias found himself at the centre.

“Eighteen years old,” he overheard someone say, “and already in line to be the next Chief of Staff.”

“That’s Horner for you, picking favourites,” a witch had replied. “Does anyone really understand how she works?”

The first time Zacharias had been the topic of Ministry gossip, he’d talked Rita Skeeter out of publishing a story, and the tale had spread by word of mouth. This time, it was a little worse. It had started three days ago, when he’d gone to the Prophet with Lucretia to meet with Cyrus Klinkhammer, the Editor in Chief for political correspondence.

Klinkhammer was an odd man—average height but gangly like a teenager, with messy hair and a monocle, and ink stains all down his arms. He was the only other person Lucretia had told about the threat, although she’d admitted to Zacharias she didn't want to. It had taken her two weeks to work up to it.

Lucretia talked in so many metaphors with Klinkhammer that Zacharias sometimes wondered if she had developed a language specifically to obfuscate their conversations. He knew Klinkhammer had the power to ruin her career—or anyone else’s, for that matter—but it felt like there was history there. Zacharias was getting better at reading people.

Inside the office, the meeting had gone well.  But as soon as they left the Prophet headquarters, they were greeted by the flash of  a camera. By the time his eyes readjusted, all Zacharias saw was the billow of an emerald cloak as the photographer dashed away. The next morning the Prophet ran a photo of Lucretia and Zacharias leaving the building with the headline “PLAYING POLITICS AT THE PROPHET!”

There was a dreadful irony in Rita Skeeter writing an article about her own newspaper, but nobody gave it a second thought when faced with the image of Lucretia, staring straight at the camera, fearless, and her second-in-command, Zacharias, flinching away, hand raised to ward off the camera’s flash. Never mind that Zacharias wasn’t actually second-in-anything; Skeeter had made up her mind, and the public would follow.

Public relations was supposed to be the ultimate invisible profession. “Behind the scenes” wasn’t meant to become “common knowledge.” Even worse—Zacharias knew his seminars would be clouded by this. All that time he’d spent building up an air of impartiality, ruined by one inopportune moment.

“Cheer up,” Celia said. She was too short for Zacharias to see her behind his newspaper fort, but she didn’t sound too chipper herself. “It could be worse.”

“Make my day,” Zacharias said. “Tell me how.”

“You could’ve been fired.”

Zacharias managed a laugh. “Lucretia would have to fire herself.”

“That’s what you get for fucking with Rita Skeeter,” Celia said.  “Hey,” she added as if it weren’t off topic at all, “let’s do something tonight.”

“I am never getting drunk with you again,” Zacharias said.

“I promise I won’t make you dye your hair this time,” she said.

Zacharias couldn’t see the look on her face, but she didn’t sound very genuine about it. He cleared his throat. “I’ll think about it.”

“There’s still nearly a month until the election,” Celia said. “We need to let loose while we can.”

It was times like these when Zacharias thought about Tracey. If he owled her, he could get a list of the best watering holes in London, and half a dozen reasons why her favourite cocktails were superior to anything else on the menu. Maybe a description or two of a hot bartender. That’s what Tracey would do. Zacharias hadn’t thought about her in so long, and it hit him suddenly how much he missed her.

“Zach? Zacharias? Earth to Smith?”

“Sorry, Celia,” he said, “maybe another night. Lots of work to do, and all that.”

“Let’s make that a promise,” she said.

He picked up another personnel file, and didn’t respond. To even be worthy of the gossip, he knew he had to work harder.

The day went by slowly. After Zacharias finished with his notes, he started on the international newspapers, making cuttings and filing away their perspectives on the British ministerial election. Turkmenistan was positive it would be an easy win for Shacklebolt, but Luxembourg had predicted a long-overdue victory for Mills. Zacharias watched his colleagues leave the office one by one—Maureen first, so she could catch the Muggle news on her telly, then Celia, out for a drink with Penelope, and finally Thaddeus, who didn’t so much as say goodbye.

When it was almost ten, Zacharias  put down the last of his international papers for the day—Uruguay, touting a surprise lead in the polls for Wimple—and finally made his way toward the atrium. The Ministry was dead at night, with only a few memos flying up and down the corridors. It was dark, too; the windows matched to the cloudy night outside. A sole light shone, illuminating the door to Percy Weasley’s office. Zacharias almost felt bad for him.

As he walked from the Ministry to Embankment, Zacharias wondered why he never went out at night. Nighttime London  was quiet, chilly, and actually, quite beautiful. He felt more peaceful than he had in some time. The feeling wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it might be.

A half-written letter awaited him on his dining table. Anthony’s owl had been hanging around his window for days; Zacharias had been getting slack. He knew it was his own fault, because Anthony was nothing if not diligent, but sometimes Zacharias was so tired when he got home that he’d fall straight into bed. He’d wake up close to midnight and work until three, and then sleep again. It was a bad habit—he didn’t even make time to go jogging anymore—but everyone at the Ministry was flat out with the elections coming up. If Zacharias didn't work just as hard, if not harder, he felt like he wouldn’t be worth the responsibility his job entrusted to him.

Tonight, though, he would get back on track. There was no point killing himself over a job. He’d reply to Anthony, go straight to bed, and get up early so he could go for a run.

 

_Ant,_

_I’m sorry you had to see that article. Caught me at something of a bad angle. Not sure I have a good angle, but I suppose since I’m fast becoming magical Britain's #1 celebrity, I ought to work on it._

_Sorry about replying so late, things are busy here. Election is draining us all. I’ve been tasked with archiving the international commentary. There is a lot of international commentary. It’s far from the glamorous lifestyle my fifteen minutes of fame would have you expect._

_Not long now until the 19th—44 days. I’ve been counting, too. As embarrassing as it is to display any sort of sentiment, I do miss you. And Tracey. Ask her if she knows anywhere good to go drinking in London. Don’t tell her it’s for me._

_Yours,_

_Zacharias_

 

With Epimetheus flying off with his letter, Zacharias was surprised to find that he didn’t feel tired at all. Too alert to sleep, he took out the personnel files and started leafing through them again to see if there was anything he’d missed.

He had this memory from his childhood of his mother standing by the kitchen bench in their old house in Glasgow, telling his father, “I wish you wouldn’t bring your work home.” At that age, Zacharias didn’t really know what scientists did, but he later found out that the work that piled up was from his father’s teaching: assignments to mark for his undergraduates and article drafts to comment on for his postgraduates. Zacharias still didn’t understand quite how Muggle universities worked, but it seemed like a lot of bother. Like politics.

Even here, miles away in London, Zacharias was acting just like his father. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth—but what else was there for him to do, except keep working?

He took out Kelvin Orpington’s file first. Orpington was be a likely candidate for the threats, mainly because he was such an objectionable person. Unlike his great-grandmother, a progressive and kind Minister by all accounts, Kelvin Orpington was just about as mediaeval as you could get without joining the Death Eaters.

Zacharias had instinctively distrusted Orpington since his first meeting with the new candidates, and he worried that he’d let his bias get to him. There was still the possibility that Wimple or Mills could have sent the threat. It could even have been Shacklebolt, painting himself as a victim so Lucretia would work harder to secure his re-election, although Zacharias doubted that very much. But he had to start somewhere, so Orpington it was.

Although Lucretia had only tasked Zacharias with coming up with blackmail in case her investigation didn’t pan out, it was hard not to do a bit of digging himself. It wasn’t that he thought Lucretia couldn’t work it out. He was settling into his notoriety, coming to like the way people had pegged him for the next Chief of Staff, even if it meant a bit of teasing from his colleagues.

In among the pages of personal details about Kelvin Orpington was a copy of a recent complaint letter he’d written about malfunctioning climate spells on his floor. For maybe the fifth time, Zacharias scanned it, this time to see if he could pick up any similarities in syntax to the threatening article. It was a fruitless exercise—every time he thought he saw something, he’d second-guess himself. There was nothing to suggest he wasn’t simply imagining parallels where none existed. _Anthony would be good at something like this_ , he thought. _He’d know what to look for._

As the thought crossed his mind, it hit Zacharias that he was looking for the wrong thing.  He’d never find similarities between the writing styles; it just wasn’t his speciality. But the Ministry, with all its twists and turns and deep-buried secrets— _that_ , he was beginning to know well. Maybe he was just some kid with a job in PR, but he was quickly learning the ins and outs of politics, too, and one bit in Orpington’s letter stood out to him.

… _and it is simply unacceptable for Ministry facilities to be in these conditions! Just the other day I had business in Magical Law Enforcement and found myself accosted by a swathe of memos as I exited the lift. It wasn’t just the memos, however. The corridors were littered with scraps of newspaper, as though someone had been cutting letters out of the Daily Prophet to throw a ticker tape parade or some such nonsense…_

Zacharias read it over a few more times just to be sure. He was caught on the letters snipped from the Daily Prophet. The forged article that had been sent to Lucretia wasn’t done in the cut-out style of a ransom letter, but a lead was a lead. He pushed the letter across his table and looked up at the clock. It was midnight, and there wasn’t anything he could do until the morning. He’d go to sleep now and deal with it later.

He woke up at three again, anyway, as was becoming his habit. At least this time he got back to sleep quickly enough.

The first thing he did the next morning was take the letter straight to Lucretia’s office. She pored over it, not saying anything, for almost five minutes.

“I don’t like this,” she said eventually. “Why wasn’t this brought to my attention?”

Zacharias rifled through the other files on Orpington. “Says here it reached Complaints, but there was no action taken because Maintenance fixed the problem before anyone even got to it.”

“Adrift in the bureaucratic sea,” Lucretia joked. “Well, we have it now, and that’s what matters.

Zacharias did not miss her use of _we_ instead of _I_. He told himself not to get too cocky about it.

“Wimple’s still got friends in Correspondence and Complaints,” Lucretia continued, “which makes me suspicious. I’m sure a lot of people complained about the malfunctioning climate, and that gives someone an easy excuse to ignore this particular complaint. Orpington’s no small deal, though. You expect his voice to be heard in a situation like this.”

“You think Wimple’s the one who sent the threat, then?” Zacharias confirmed.

“Maybe,” Lucretia said. “Even if he isn’t, we now know that someone in Magical Law Enforcement has been putting together ransom letters and being careless with their evidence. It might be completely unrelated. We’ll do some reconnaissance later nonetheless. Until then, keep up the good work, Smith.”

For the rest of the morning, Zacharias retired to the archives, luxuriating in the blissful silence as he made his way through back-issues of the Daily Prophet. It wasn’t efficient to look through everything without any structure, because it was impossible to say what was in each issue, so Zacharias used a spell that Anthony had come up with in fourth year for scanning library books for keywords. It was a bit of a temperamental spell—as homebrew spells tended to be—but when you got it right, it did the trick. Once or twice, Zacharias ended up with scientific documents ( _Kelvin_ Orpington) and gardening manuals ( _Wisteria_ Clatworthy). But by the end, he had a stack of newspapers and other documents stowed away in his bag to study in private.

He’d thought he would have time after lunch to make some headway, but as it turned out, his morning had been for nothing. Lucretia strode into the office unannounced, said, “Don’t just sit there, Smith,” and then they were gone.

“Can I ask what’s happening, or is that all part of the fun?”

“You can ask,” Lucretia said, “but I won’t have a proper answer for you.”

“So what’s happening?” Zacharias asked, pushing his luck.

Lucretia grinned up at him over her shoulder. “It’s a surprise.”

Zacharias had a bit of an idea, though. They were headed for the offices of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, and within, Tiberius Wimple.

Funnily enough, Zacharias had yet to see Wimple in the flesh. He recognised the old man’s small, round frame from newspaper clippings, but in person the wizard was miraculously even shorter, which gave Zacharias something of an advantage.

That, and they barged into the office like an Auror raid.

“Alright, Wimple,” Lucretia said, holding out the letter Zacharias had passed onto her, “I’ve got some correspondence and a complaint. Talk to me about Kelvin Orpington.”

Wimple blinked. In fact, he didn’t do much other than blink for a good half a minute. Eventually, he managed to clear his throat. “Excuse me?”

“Orpington,” Lucretia prompted. “Which of your friends in C&C chose to push it to the bottom of the pile?”

“I beg your pardon,” Wimple said, puffing himself up, “but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about!”

Lucretia frowned, turning back to Zacharias. “Well, he’s not lying.”

“How can you tell?” Zacharias asked.

“Years of experience,” Lucretia said. “Anyway, seems like this won’t lead anywhere. Waste of time.”

“Wait,” Zacharias said. This felt wrong, rushed. “Shouldn’t we at least check out the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”

Lucretia forged ahead of him, out of the office and down the hallway without so much as another glance at Wimple. “Look,” she said, “I know you’re excited because this is all you’ve got in the case, but I can already tell it’s a dead end.”

“You thought there was something, too,” Zacharias said. The realisation hit him like a lightbulb going off in his mind. “You don’t want to go to Magical Law Enforcement because your friend Pavoni works there, and you’re worried she’ll be behind it. That’s why you explained this away by finding some convoluted way to relate it to Wimple and—”

“How _dare_ you,” Lucretia snapped, stopping in her tracks and spinning to face him.

Zacharias had never really noticed it before, but Lucretia was _short_. Admittedly, most people were short to him, but she was almost two heads shorter, and for the first time, he saw it. He remembered what she’d said about hiring him because he never slouched. She didn’t either—except, it seemed, in circumstances like these.

Like with Wimple, Zacharias suddenly felt like he had the upper hand. In a situation like this, a good protégé might have apologised, and let the subject drop. Zacharias was _not_ a good protégé.

“Prove me wrong,” he said, spreading his arms to show that he was willing to make himself vulnerable, too. “Let’s go there now and ask around.”

Lucretia was _seething_ , but somehow she managed to reply. “ _Never_ assume that I would let friendship get in the way of my job. Friends are _nothing_ to someone in my position.”

Zacharias sucked in a breath. “Prove it.”

For a long moment, Lucretia was silent. Zacharias thought he’d really done it this time, fucked it all up for good. But then she spoke: “Follow me.”

She kept silent as they headed to Magical Law Enforcement on Level Two, but Zacharias had never seen her walk with such purpose, and that was saying something. He was quietly terrified that he’d gone too far, but also strangely exhilarated. If he could do this to Lucretia, then he could do _anything_.

Lucretia didn’t mess around. She headed straight for Pavoni’s office, stopping Zacharias at the door. “Find some drones, ask around about the Prophet clippings. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

“Right,” Zacharias said. He was annoyed he’d miss the spectacle, but he understood. Fighting with a friend was not something you wanted an audience for.

He left, wandering around until he found a tea room of sorts, with a makeshift bench and kettles running on magic alone. There was a solitary wizard sitting at the bench, sipping from a mug that was shaped like a giant squid, a tentacle wrapping around to form the handle.

“I wonder if you could help me with something,” Zacharias said, sitting down on the other side of the bench.

The wizard flinched, pulling his mug closer to his chest. “You’re that Smith fellow, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” Zacharias said. “Do you know anything about a recent incident where clippings from the Daily Prophet were left scattered across your floor?”

“Oh,” the wizard said, relaxing a little, “that’s old news. It was Stebbins, down in Improper Use of Magic. There had been some doctoring of information in Muggle newspapers, things like letters rearranging themselves on the page to tell different stories. Lots of confused Muggles. Well, Stebbins tried to reconstruct the spell, but it went a little wrong and wound up cutting a few issues of the Prophet into tiny scraps, letter by letter. They blew all about the corridors.”

“So what happened to the cuttings?” Zacharias asked. This wasn’t what he had expected.

The wizard rolled his eyes. “Kelvin Orpington was down here, and he went and yelled at Stebbins until he cleaned it up.”

That was it, then: Orpington’s complaint had never been taken seriously because he had dealt with it himself. He’d just brought it up again to add weight to his other grievances. Zacharias felt like a prize idiot. This had nothing to do with the election, nothing to do with Pavoni.

“Thanks,” he said to the wizard, getting up, “you’ve been a great help.”

He’d created a different sort of mess. He ran to Pavoni’s office, hand raised to knock when the door flew open, revealing Lucretia and Pavoni glaring daggers at each other.

“I didn’t do this for _you_ ,” Pavoni was saying. “This isn’t about—”

“This _is_ about trust,” Lucretia said. “I won’t state the obvious about our old allegiances, but I would’ve expected better from you. And if I don’t see your withdrawal notice on my desk within the hour, I will personally see to it that your life is _hell_.”

Lucretia pulled the door shut behind her with a loud slam, and seemed surprised to come face to face with Zacharias.

“The cuttings from the Prophet,” he said, “it was—”

“A red herring, if you will,” Lucretia said. “I know.”

Zacharias fell into step as she made her way out of the Magical Law Enforcement offices. “But Pavoni—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Smith,” Lucretia said. “She admitted to it straight away. She never was a good liar.” Lucretia paused as they reached the lift. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Zacharias said, the instinct to apologise kicking in for perhaps the first time in his life. “I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t even a lead; you only came to this conclusion because I… because I provoked you, which I shouldn’t have done. I’m s—”

“That’s enough of that,” Lucretia said, striding into the lift without looking at him. “I expect to see you at Pavoni’s withdrawal press conference, otherwise we’re done with this.”

“Of course,” Zacharias said. He was going to keep his mouth shut, but his curiosity bested him. “What did you mean about your ‘old allegiances’ with Pavoni?”

Lucretia’s mouth hardened into a line. “Hufflepuff and Slytherin,” she said. “When it works, it _works_. When it doesn’t, it’s an international disaster.”

At that, Zacharias laughed aloud. Lucretia looked at him quizzically, but all he said was, “I know what you mean.”

True to his word, he kept to himself for the rest of the afternoon.When Giorgina Pavoni called a surprise press conference to announce her withdrawal from the ministerial campaign, he acted as shocked as everyone else. He stood just behind Pavoni at Lucretia’s side, as was expected of her second-in-whatever, and didn’t blink when the cameras went off.

After the press conference, Celia sought him out. “What the hell happened there?”

“Fucked if I know,” Zacharias said. “One less PR disaster for us to worry about, though.”

Celia shrugged. “Fair. I think this calls for a celebration, don’t you?”

“I said I wasn’t drinking with you again, and I meant it,” Zacharias said.

“Tomorrow night,” Celia said. “You, me, Penny. There’s a nightclub I know where we won’t be able to hear each other for long enough to come up with stupid dares.”

“Alright, I’m in,” Zacharias said. If he was being honest with himself, he needed it _tonight_ , but he was alright with waiting.

“I’ll swing by your flat to pick you up,” Celia said, patting him on the shoulder. “Until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow,” Zacharias echoed, as Celia darted off into the crowd.

So Zacharias had a whole night and day of sitting around, trying not to look at his face on the front cover of the Saturday Prophet, which  arrived by owl post directly that morning. Distraction finally arrived late in the afternoon with a letter from Anthony.

 

_Zach,_

_Don’t worry about it. I’m busy too, you know, being as important as I am. It seems the Head Boy is always in high demand. Don’t be jealous, though! You’re still top of my list—when you write, ha ha._

_Also, I saw you in the Prophet again today. This was a much better angle for you, I think. You had a look on your face like someone was forcing you to stand next to a pile of unicorn droppings. Very flattering. I’m not joking, by the way; you photograph well. No, don’t argue. Just take it. It’s called a “compliment.”_

_I asked Tracey about bars in London, and she said, “TELL ZACH TO FUCK OFF!” I didn’t tell her it was for you, honest. She just knows you too well. I think, in some ways, that’s a good thing. She’s been furious lately because everyone’s talking about you, the Hufflepuff boy who dropped out to work for the Ministry. You’re a little notorious. Fame suits you. There’s this image, a spectral Zacharias who exists only in the collective consciousness of Hogwarts now. I like to tell people that I know him well. I get a bit of a kick out of that. Maybe fame would suit me too. Maybe that’s why I’m Head Boy._

_Anyway, I’ll stop rambling! I’m sure you’re still busy with the election; no time for my philosophising. 42 days now!_

_Until then, ever yours,_

_Anthony_

 

Zacharias closed his eyes, fighting a smile. He wished Anthony had kept rambling—the letter’s abrupt end left Zacharias feeling a little hollow.

He was about to pick up his quill and write a suitably emotionless reply that would somehow convey the fact that, actually, he had a great deal of emotions, when he was interrupted by a loud _pop_. He opened his eyes to find Celia perched on the dining table.

“I thought you didn’t like Apparating,” he said.

“I don’t,” she said, “but I like the drama.”

“Right,” Zacharias said, shrugging.

“Anyway. Drinks?” She jumped off the table and landed on her feet.

Zacharias put the letter down. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment, and/or come chat to me on [tumblr](http://memordes.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/_memorde), about anything, really.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, trying to keep a reasonable update schedule! Chapter 17 is written, 18 is on its way, and on top of that I've written lots of chapters 19 and 21... 21 being the last... anyway wow I'm excited to finally be getting up to this part of the fic. Hope you enjoy!

With a week left until the election, the Ministry took on a life of its own. Zacharias had never seen anything like it. He could stand still in the Atrium and, seconds later, find himself whirled away to somewhere completely different. There was a general sense of helplessness, which was oddly reassuring. By now, Zacharias was used to people staring at him, but in this constant stream of preoccupation he could move around unnoticed.

It hadn’t been without its tolls. To compensate for how hard he was working, he’d started drinking harder too. It reminded him of all his late-night last-minute study sessions with Tracey, firewhisky and anything else they could find hidden behind stacks of books at their desk towards the back of the library. He felt like he was becoming more Tracey by the minute.

He was still trying not to think about Tracey.

Nevertheless, things were going well. The sixteenth had come and gone, and no inflammatory articles about Minister Shacklebolt had been published in the Prophet. Lucretia was still frosty with Zacharias after the Pavoni incident, but no more than she had been when they first became acquainted. Zacharias settled into the sense of distance easily—or, as easily as one could.

The election was on the twenty-seventh, a Friday, and on the Friday before, Zacharias and Celia prepared themselves for the inevitable poll-closing party by getting pre-emptively shitfaced. He staggered back into his flat at late-o’clock, falling over the arm of the couch and planting himself face-first amidst the cushions. There was hooting at his window. Epimetheus had been sitting there for six days now, a new record. Zacharias knew he ought to feel bad, but he was too tired for emotions.

He fell asleep like that, on the couch, stewing in his own sweat. The next morning he was miraculously not hungover, but he still felt like he’d been dragged through mud. After a jog, a shower, and breakfast, he was just about ready to face the day. He was thinking about all the work he could be doing when the phone rang.

“Please don’t tell me you’re hungover again.”

Hearing Anthony’s voice was like a bucket of water over the head. Zacharias wished he’d had this an hour or two ago.

“Not this time,” he said.

Anthony laughed, brief and breathy. “This is becoming a bit of a trend.”

“I’m not the one who schedules Hogsmeade weekends right after my designated drinking days,” Zacharias said. “I’m guessing that’s where you are… ?”

“Yeah,” Anthony said. “I’m back on the phone in the Hog’s Head. At least no-one’s rushing me this time. I managed to slip away quietly.”

“That’s good,” Zacharias said.

There was silence for a while—a comfortable silence, but one heavy with meaning. They both knew something was up.

“So,” Anthony said, “I know we’re both shit at talking about our feelings, but I think we need to be serious about something for a second.” There was a pause. “I don’t know how to say this without it coming out wrong, though.”

Zacharias sighed. “This is about me not writing, isn’t it?”

“There, now you’ve said it,” Anthony said, “that wasn’t so bad.”

“I meant to—”

“No, don’t say anything just yet.” Anthony cleared his throat. “ _I_ need to say this, because otherwise it’ll never get said. This is new. This is new for _both_ of us; and yes, it’s been a year since I realised I was even _capable_ of feeling like this, so believe me when I say I’m floundering too. But you are a _terrible_ boyfriend.”

There was a break in Anthony’s voice. It hit Zacharias like a bludger to the chest, throwing him off-centre and punctuating his sentences with a question mark of doubt as he wondered if he was still afloat, or if he’d begun to plummet to the ground. He managed a nervous laugh. “Are you dumping me?”

“What? Of course not,” Anthony said. “I don’t think either of us want that. But while we’re apart like this, you need to get your act together, or I’m going to join Team Tracey.”

“Yeah,” Zacharias said. “I get it. I know I’m not… I mean, it’s new to me too, but I guess that’s not really an excuse.”

“It isn’t.”

There were a lot of things Zacharias wanted to say—about the election, about his extra work, about his partial falling-out with Lucretia, which actually had hurt him more than he cared to admit—but it was all just excuses. Anthony deserved more than excuses. The problem was, Zacharias could _do_ excuses. He could talk his way out of any situation, weaving lies until the truth was so far removed that he himself wasn’t sure which version of events to believe.

The truth was, Anthony was right: Zacharias was just _bad_ at this.

“Yeah, so,” Zacharias said, stalling, “I’m a shite boyfriend.”

“That’s it?” Anthony asked.

“I’m going to fix myself,” Zacharias said, standing up a little straighter.

“Don’t say things like that,” Anthony said. “I don’t know whether I’d like you if you weren’t a bit of a bastard.”

“But I can be a bit less of a bastard to you,” Zacharias said. It wasn’t an admission that came naturally, and a part of him longed to go on the defensive, but for Anthony’s sake—well, how far _would_ he go to make himself better? He waited for Anthony to say something to that, but he kept quiet. “Wait, when you say you ‘like’ me—”

This time when Anthony laughed, it buzzed loudly down the phone line. “Yeah, I thought you might have got that message by now.”

“It’s weird to hear it aloud,” Zacharias said.

Anthony hummed. “Maybe that’s also something you have to work on.”

Zacharias shut his eyes tight for a few seconds. He didn’t open them until he was ready. “I like you too.”

“Ah, stop it,” Anthony said. “You’ll make me blush.”

“Maybe you should work on _that_ ,” Zacharias said. Before Anthony could reply, he cut him off. “Hold the line. I’m getting a quill.”

Anthony might have said something, but Zacharias was already halfway across the room, stretching himself over the tabletop to grab his quill and inkwell and a spare bit of parchment. He went to the window next, throwing it open and shooting a glance at Anthony’s owl. “Are you getting this, Epimetheus?”

“—come _on_ , Zach,” Anthony was saying. “You don’t need to do this.”

“Actually, I do,” Zacharias said, adjusting himself so he could lean on the kitchen counter and write. “I absolutely need to do this.”

“I am holding this against you for the rest of your life,” Anthony said.

Zacharias ignored him. “Dearest darling Anthony,” he dictated, writing just _Ant_ at the head of the letter, “ _how long has it been since last we corresponded, let me count the days_ —is that Shakespeare? I think it’s Shakespeare— _I wish I could say so much has happened since then, but the truth is, it’s been much of the same. Work is busy, Lucretia is still keeping me at arm’s length, Maureen has gone back to calling me a ‘bad egg.’ The election is under a week away now, so we’ve all become very boring people_.”

“Yeah, sounds dull,” Anthony said.

“ _Unlike being Head Boy_ ,” Zacharias dictated to himself, “ _which I believe is uniquely demanding, and continuously fascinating. I know you must miss me awfully_.”

“Sometimes,” Anthony said. “Most of the time I’m too busy with homework to even think about you.”

Zacharias could recognise a lie when he heard one. He paused, gripping the quill a little tighter.

“ _Well, the truth is, I miss you. I think about you most of the time, even when I’m supposed to be focusing on that,_ er, _that job I have. I’ve got friends here_ —don’t be surprised— _but none of them quite compare._ ”

He stopped writing, embarrassed. “So, there’s that. Don’t make me say it again.”

“You don’t need to say it again,” Anthony said. He’d gone very quiet.

“I won’t,” Zacharias said. “Little at a time, and all that.”

“Right,” Anthony said. “For a professional heartless bastard, you’re doing well.”

“I’ve _done_ well,” Zacharias said, “to, er, get someone who puts up with me like—no, you know what, you’re right, that’s enough sentiment for one day.”

“You should try apologising to Tracey next,” Anthony said.

“Yikes,” Zacharias said. “One thing at a time.”

Awkwardness aside, they talked for another hour. It was easy, like it had always been. Zacharias remembered how on edge he’d been when Susan had tried to set him up with Anthony earlier that year—then he’d just _talked_ to Anthony, and nothing was weird anymore. It was like that, only now he was starting to see why, in hindsight, Susan’s matchmaking had gotten to him so much.

When they hung up—around lunch time, so Anthony could meet up with friends and Zacharias could get on with work—it wasn’t with any rancour in the air, but a sort of lightness. Zacharias thought that if this was what a _real_ relationship felt like, he could do a _lot_ worse. It left him floating through the weekend, and cruising into the next week like he was impervious to anything the election could throw at him.

Wednesday saw him drafted into preparing the ballots, and on Thursday he was in the mail room along with every other junior staff member who had nothing better to do. They were charged with making sure there was an owl kitted out for every wizard over the age of seventeen, carrying a ballot slip and a pencil. Every time Zacharias thought there were no more owls, someone would open up a conduit to another part of the mail room and five hundred more would fly out.

Apart from the fact that all votes were by owl, and not anything more sensible like local polling booths and portkeys, the most antiquated part of the voting system was how the electoral roll was created. It was a variant of the ancient spell that detected underage magic, except this one picked up overage wizards within defined borders—so there was no voting if you happened to be out of the country, tough luck.

As ridiculous as the whole process was, the Ministry staff were spared. Their voting would be on Friday, in polling booths set up around the Atrium. There was an entire department devoted to setting up and supervising the voting process, although what they did for the rest of the year was a question for the Department of Mysteries. Zacharias wondered where they’d been when he was co-opted into the drudgery of the mail room.

That morning, he tried his absolute hardest to stay out of the Atrium. He hadn’t quite grasped the enormity of the Ministry’s working body until he’d arrived that morning. It was daunting in the same way the packed Hog’s Head had been on the night of the battle—too many people, too close together. He stayed at his desk, dutifully cutting tenth page snippets of articles out of international newspapers and filing them accordingly. Most of them were predicting a win for Shacklebolt, although surprisingly many were still in the Mills camp.

Zacharias had given up on engaging in speculation. It was much more fun to watch other people twist themselves into knots to justify their position. The corridors were full of arguments—you didn’t have to go far before you saw friendships ending over an election debate.

Sitting at his desk, Zacharias felt blissfully immune to it all.

Celia came into the office wearing a badge that flashed blue and yellow, announcing “I VOTED!” like a neon sign. She pushed aside a pile of newspapers and perched on the edge of Zacharias’ desk.

“Voted yet?”

“No,” he said. “I’m leaving it until the last minute. Due process, and all that.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Celia said. “I think you’re just being deliberately obtuse.”

Zacharias shrugged. “Probably. What’s it like out there? Still packed?”

“It’s a nightmare,” Celia said. “But, no worse than your average quidditch crowd.”

“You know I don’t go to quidditch matches,” Zacharias said.

“Even though you play,” Celia said, shaking her head. “Or is that something else you’ve given up?”

“Ha ha,” Zacharias said. “Very funny.” He did _not_ want to let on that she was absolutely right. He liked jogging in the mornings; it was good exercise, and he always felt good with fresh air bracing him as it blew past. But it was no substitute for flying.

There was a Ministry quidditch team, although by the nature of the staff, it was all ex-professional retirees who knew the game but had become a bit past it as they languished in the Department of Magical Games and Sport, or young enthusiasts who just didn't have the skill to cut it on a real team—or anywhere other than a desk job, for that matter. It wasn’t quite what Zacharias was looking for.

“Oh well,” Celia said, “maybe we can find a field and play sometime, after all this is over.”

“Do you even have enough friends to make up two teams?” Zacharias joked.

“Watch it,” Celia said, but she was smiling as she hopped off his desk and back to her own.

Despite his lingering amusement, Zacharias realised he was desperately looking forward to the election being over. It was a distraction from the actual work he was meant to be doing—several of his seminars had been pushed back for it—and the end of the elections meant that December was just that little bit closer. He and Anthony were writing daily again, and Zacharias was getting used to a new feeling: being absolutely giddy with infatuation. He felt like an idiot to let his own emotions become so completely out of his control. But he liked it, too. He liked that he had an excuse to let go. He wanted to shout about it, to let everyone know how spectacular it made him feel.

And as much as he tried to avoid it, work was becoming a distraction. It was supposed to be that other things distracted him from work. Giving into his more emotional side was surprisingly easy.

Settling back down with _The Siberian Wizarding Times_ , he prepared to ignore his inconvenient thoughts and feelings and put his head down—focus on the task at hand. That plan went out the window with a knock on the office door.

It was Lucretia.

“The first owls are coming in,” she said. “Preliminary counting shows that Shacklebolt is ahead by a comfortable margin. He’s expected to declare in a few hours.”

“Well, that’s just _excellent_ news,” Maureen said. “We should all be very proud of ourselves.”

“Yes, you’ve run a successful campaign,” Lucretia said, “but it’s not over yet.”

“That’s ominous,” Thaddeus said, so quietly that Lucretia probably missed it.

“So on that note,” she said, “Smith. With me.”

Zacharias almost jumped out of his seat at being addressed so directly. “I—yes, of course,” he stuttered. He wasn’t ready for this, whatever _this_ was. Maybe Lucretia had decided to take him on again. Maybe she would finally put him out of his misery. Maybe he was being fired.

“I want to make one thing clear,” Lucretia said. “You are only here for educational purposes. You will follow, watch, learn—and stay silent.”

“Understood,” Zacharias said.

“Funny,” Lucretia said, without a hint of humour in her voice, “I could swear I told you to remain silent.”

She led the way out of the offices on Level One and into the lift. From there, they swept swiftly through the crowd in the Atrium and onto the streets outside. Lucretia wasted no time in taking Zacharias by the wrist and Apparating. She didn’t give him time to adjust when they reappeared in Diagon Alley.

Zacharias was a fast learner, but he still couldn’t Apparate without feeling like he was being trampled by a herd of elephants. He followed Lucretia to the Daily Prophet headquarters, stumbling over his own feet but somehow still standing.

“Our job here is twofold,” Lucretia said. “I need to speak to Klinkhammer and do some quality control on his big spread for the afternoon print. I want you to find Rita Skeeter and tell her that Wisteria Clatworthy is shagging Ludo Bagman.”

“Talk to Skeeter?” Zacharias asked, collecting himself. “Didn’t you say I had to stay silent?”

“Very observant of you,” Lucretia said, smirking. “Just for that, I won’t give you any more detail. Good luck.”

“Is this a test?” Zacharias asked.

“It’s your job,” Lucretia said.

Zacharias couldn’t argue with that. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to facing Skeeter—it felt like they were conducting a cold war of their own, an extended feud, and this was the next battle. Skeeter just didn’t know it yet.

He diverged from Lucretia on the staircase and made his way toward the cluttered workroom where he’d first met Penelope. He wanted to talk to her before he even tried to go near Skeeter’s office. It was reassuring to see her sitting there; they hadn’t had time to meet up in ages.

“You’re here on election day,” she greeted him. “This means trouble.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing here,” Zacharias admitted. “Lucretia just dragged me along to give some totally unrelated information to Skeeter—and I’m not entirely sure why we’re _giving_ her something in the first place.”

“There’s always an ulterior motive,” Penelope said. “Tell you what: I’ll come with you to see Skeeter and make your job a little easier, and then we can go digging and find out what’s _really_ going on here.”

Zacharias let out a sigh. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“You owe me a drink,” Penelope said, laughing, “although I reckon I’ll see you at the Leaky Cauldron tonight. I gather half the Ministry’s going to be in there, drinking to forget.”

“In all fairness,” Zacharias said, “we deserve it.”

“I know what it’s like,” Penelope said. “But I hope you’ve been looking after yourself, too.”

“Getting there,” Zacharias said.

The conversation lapsed as they came to Rita Skeeter’s office. The lime-green door made Zacharias feel queasy in a way he could only describe as “seasick,” even though he’d never been on a boat in his life. Mercifully, Penelope did the knocking.

“Come in!” called Skeeter, her voice shrill. It was probably a big news day. When she saw them, though, her face fell. She was probably expecting another informant. “Penelope, and—oh. Smith.”

“I do hope I’m not intruding,” Zacharias said.

“Not at all,” Skeeter said. “But you will understand if I ask you what in Merlin’s name you’re doing here on election day?”

Zacharias had to think fast. “It doesn’t matter what day it is,” he said. “The news waits for no-one.”

“Funny that you should be the one bringing me the news,” Skeeter said. Whatever else she might have been, she caught on quick. “What do you think you know that I don’t?”

“Between the three of us,” Zacharias said, shooting a quick glance at Penelope, “you haven’t had a big story in weeks, have you?”

“I wasn’t aware you read my stories,” Skeeter said. “I thought such petty gossip would be _beneath_ a young politician such as yourself.”

It was the first time anyone had called him a _politician_ —Zacharias liked the ring of it. He could grow into that. Perhaps he already had.

“If you knew how much I read in a day, you’d think I was mental,” Zacharias said. “Now do you want the story or not?”

“Yes, of _course_ I want the story,” Skeeter snapped.

Penelope cleared her throat. “Is it alright that I’m hearing this?” she asked.

Zacharias shrugged. “Everyone will have heard it before too long. We don’t want it to have an impact on the election results, as polls are technically still open until five, but Wisteria Clatworthy’s been making quite a name for herself in the Department of Magical Games and Sport.”

“That’s where she works,” Skeeter said, impatient. “Everyone knows—”

“She’s been making something quite different in Ludo Bagman’s office,” he added.

Skeeter went quiet. “The implications of this—”

“Are not to make it from your mind to your quill to the paper until polls are closed,” Zacharias said.

“There’s not enough time to change our afternoon print, anyway,” Penelope said.

“There’s _always_ time,” Skeeter said, her eyes narrowing as she grinned. “What’s to stop me?”

“Your own sense of decency?” Zacharias hazarded.

“Nice try,” Skeeter said.

Zacharias faked an exaggerated sigh. “Well, I can’t stop you. But you know there’ll be consequences if you go ahead.”

Skeeter just smiled, waving her hand towards the door. Her rings jangled, and Zacharias and Penelope exchanged a glance. That was their cue to leave.

Out in the corridor, Zacharias slumped against a wall. Reverse psychology took a lot out of him. “If I never have to do that again, I’ll live a long, happy life.”

“I’m with you on that,” Penelope said, “and I have to _work_ here. Ready to do some investigative journalism?”

“Should I be scared?” Zacharias tried to sound lighthearted, but it wasn’t really coming across. “Lucretia told me she would be speaking to Klinkhammer.”

“Eavesdropping on our bosses,” Penelope said, “what _will_ they think of us?”

They made their way further down the hall to an office with a door the colour of a fire hydrant. “Surely there are silencing charms up,” Zacharias said.

Penelope just laughed. “You’d think so.”

From outside Klinkhammer’s office, they couldn’t quite hear everything. Lucretia had raised her voice, and she was talking, as far as Zacharias could tell, about Wisteria Clatworthy.

“Well this is anticlimactic,” he said. “It’s just more of Clatworthy shagging Bagman. Which we don’t even know is true.”

“I’m not so sure,” Penelope whispered.

So Zacharias listened closer. He started to hear other words making their way in there—”Shacklebolt” and “polls closing soon” and “preliminary results are a good indicator, everyone knows that.” Then, Klinkhammer shouted, shaking the wooden doorframe with the words, “If there’s been a miscount, the people deserve to know!”

“Listen to you!” Lucretia shouted back. Now, she was loud enough that they could hear each word. “You sound like the fucking Quibbler! Where’s the journalist you used to be? Where’s the _integrity_?”

“This _is_ integrity,” Klinkhammer said. “Integrity is not just telling the people what the government wants them to hear.”

“And do you want everything we’ve worked for to be for nothing? There’s still time for the votes to come in, Cyrus. Fuck, if people hear that Clatworthy is crying a miscount, she’ll get the sympathy vote. Everything Shacklebolt’s done, all the _rebuilding_ —do you want to entrust that to Wisteria fucking Clatworthy?”

Zacharias had never heard Lucretia swear. Everything new he saw of her, it made her a little more human. Made him wonder when she’d do that essentially human thing and forgive him, even though he’d been a prick.

As the argument died down, he and Penelope pulled back from the door, waiting at the end of the corridor like they’d been there all along. Lucretia spun out of Klinkhammer’s office without warning, her robes billowing impressively behind her. She made straight for Zacharias.

“Is it done?” she asked.

“It’s done,” Zacharias confirmed. “Skeeter should be shoehorning the story into the afternoon print as we speak.”

Lucretia gave Zacharias a rare, genuine smile. “Good,” she said. “I am so fucking exhausted. The sooner this is over and done with, the better.”

“Dare I ask,” Penelope interrupted, “what exactly is going on?”

Lucretia blinked at Penelope for a few seconds. Zacharias wondered if she’d even noticed her there.

“Well,” she finally said, “you’re not in a position to publish anything now, so I don’t see why not. Clatworthy has been making very public accusations of miscounting, saying she should be in the lead instead of Shacklebolt. It’s all lies, of course—our counting process is infallible.”

“So we’ve ruined her career to set her right,” Zacharias said. It seemed harsh.

“Not quite,” Lucretia said. “I know for a fact that she and Bagman have been waiting for the perfect moment to announce their engagement. It’s been going on forever. I’m just helping them along.”

“Shouldn’t we be back at the Ministry, though?” Zacharias pressed. “Making sure Clatworthy doesn’t get any—”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Lucretia said, “I’ve let you run around after me while I do my job, but your place is still in Public Relations. And at the end of the day, part of mine is too. I know it can get boring, being away from the action, but this where we fit. Behind the scenes. I would have thought you’d got that by now.”

Zacharias exchanged a nervous look with Penelope. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got it.”

“Well don’t just stand there like an idiot,” Lucretia said. “Our jobs aren’t done for the day.”

“Right,” Zacharias said.

And that was that. Tentatively, they were back to normal. With a quick “See you later” to Penelope, Zacharias let Lucretia Apparate him back to the Ministry. He lost Lucretia in the buzz of the Atrium, which was all the impetus he needed to finally vote. It was still packed. While he waited in line to have his name marked off the electoral roll, the owl post swooped in with the afternoon circulation of the Prophet. The rumour mill was spinning once again.

Zacharias cast his vote for Kingsley Shacklebolt, feeling like the calm at the centre of a storm. The hurricane followed him on his way back to the office, but he never let it touch him, not once. There were international newspapers waiting on his desk, and he took to the task right away.

Second-in-command or not, this was still his job. And he wanted to keep it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! I am particularly keen to chat about anything Potterverse, at any convenience. Come find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/_memorde) or [tumblr](http://memordes.tumblr.com)!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! In the meantime, I've, you know, finished the entire fic, just casually. So that's been a pretty good feeling, and now it's all being edited and will be complete probably by mid-September, because I do want to try to keep _some_ time between updates. All up, there are 21 chapters. It's very exiting. Thank you so much to Taylor, as ever, for the amazing beta reading!

At five-thirty in the afternoon, the entire staff of the British Ministry of Magic gathered in the Atrium, along with a good two hundred journalists, cameras, and notepads poised for the announcement. It was shoulder-to-shoulder, with no room to breathe in the solid crowd.

Zacharias, thankfully, was not part of the crowd. He stood on an elevated stage in front of the obnoxious fountain along with the other PR staff, watching as Lucretia and Linwood flanked Kingsley Shacklebolt, who stood on the stage front and centre. The crowd shook with chatter, which dulled to a hum as Shacklebolt tapped his wand to his throat to amplify his voice.

“Witches, wizards, magical beings,” he began, “it is with great pleasure that I announce that the vote counting has been completed, and that I can accept my re-election as Minister for Magic.”

The crowd burst into cheers, and Zacharias flinched backwards.

“This is like a scene from one of my nightmares,” he mumbled to Celia, even though he didn’t really remember the last time he’d had a nightmare. He was pretty sure that if he had any fear at all, then this was it. They were surrounded on every side of the fountain, the great monstrosity itself providing the only shield between the stage and the rest of the crowd. And the noise was _deafening_. It was enough to drive anyone up the wall. Zacharias couldn’t fathom how everyone else seemed so calm in the face of it.

“I look forward to business as usual,” Shacklebolt continued, “but also to a stronger future and a more committed, productive Ministry of Magic.”

Politics was all such nonsense, Zacharias thought. He could write this stuff in his sleep—and he _had_ , for all the History of Magic essays he’d ever bullshitted his way through at two in the morning after a late Quidditch practice. He wondered who was writing Shacklebolt’s speeches. Probably Linwood.

As the speech wore on, Zacharias counted down the minutes until he could escape up to the Leaky Cauldron. He’d been building up his tolerance, and now he was ready to tear it all apart and drink until he couldn’t walk straight. With the election over, it was like a chapter of his life had ended. He knew today meant less liaising with the Prophet and more of a focus on his seminars, but he found that he didn’t care. This whole business was too much for him, anyway. For now. He wasn’t ready to be second-in-command just yet.

“—and I thank you all for being here today,” Shacklebolt said, closing his speech. The cheering got unbearably loud then, and Zacharias rocked back on his heels, leaning towards the fountain in the hope that it’d drown out the noise.

His quest for silence went unfulfilled as the staff who had dedicated their time to the election process migrated en masse to the Cauldron, right as he managed to escape. The Prophet’s political correspondents—and then some—were there too, pressing themselves against the bar and ordering in great, crushing waves.

Zacharias found a relatively quiet corner with Celia and Penelope and a bottle of industrial-strength firewhisky, the valuable friend at the table. They drank from chipped glasses and at an alarming rate, and slowly, Zacharias felt his problems drain away with the liquid in the firewhisky bottle.

“What do we do now,” Celia said, blankly staring into the bottom of her glass. “That election was my whole _life_.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Penelope said. “I’m sure it’ll only haunt you for… another few years, maybe?”

Celia slumped down, resting her head in her arms. “I don’t even want to celebrate. I just want to _sleep_.”

“We can sleep all through tomorrow,” Penelope said. “I want to do something to earn that sleep.”

“Like consume your entire body weight in alcohol?” Zacharias suggested, taking a sip from his glass.

“Precisely,” Penelope said. “I want to get drunk enough to do something I regret.”

“Famous last words,” Celia mumbled, not lifting her head.

Penelope reached across the table and ruffled Celia’s hair. “That’s the spirit.”

It didn’t make sense. Maybe it didn’t need to. Zacharias leant back in his chair and watched the ceiling for a little bit. The ceiling didn’t do anything very interesting. It was, after all, just a ceiling. If Zacharias were more poetic, he would’ve constructed a metaphor about the way the ceiling’s immobility represented the unchanging lives of the Ministry and Prophet employees. As it was, though, he thought the pointlessness of ceiling metaphors, blinking to refocus his vision. He thought about how he might have been a little more tipsy than he realised.

He only looked back down when he heard someone approach their table, and found Percy Weasley standing there, clearing his throat.

“Evening, all,” he said.

Zacharias realised he hadn’t eaten since lunch, which was… well, it was certainly some amount of hours ago. Weren’t you supposed to avoid drinking on an empty stomach?

“I trust you’re enjoying yourselves?” Percy asked, clearly surprised that no-one had responded to him.

“No,” Celia grumbled. “No, we’re not.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Zacharias said. “Penelope and I are having the time of our lives, isn’t that right, Penelope? _Penny_?”

Penelope wasn’t responding. She looked furious that Zacharias was so much as _talking_ to Percy. He hadn’t noticed before.

“Sorry,” he said.

“I had been hoping to have a word,” Percy said, pulling up a chair. Zacharias couldn’t see where he got it from.

“Had you,” Penelope said icily. “Perhaps that’s what you ought to have done in the first place.”

“Yes, well,” Percy said. He didn’t continue—maybe he was a little drunk too.

Penelope glared at him. “And you thought getting a junior staff member to talk to me on your behalf was a good idea?”

“Wasn’t it?” Percy asked. “Zacharias has been very helpful.”

“Bullshit,” Zacharias said. They ignored him.

“Has he now?” Penelope said. “I gather you want to get back together. Is that it, Percy? After all this, you want to act like you never betrayed anyone?”

“I—” Percy began. He looked taken aback.

“Oh, get a room,” Celia said to the table.

“If I could interrupt,” Zacharias said, “yes, what Weasley did was stupid, but I think you’re being too harsh on him, Penelope. People don’t run away because they want to hurt those around them. People… they run away because they’re scared.”

“What would you know about what happened between us?” Percy snapped.

Zacharias remembered how they were warned not to mention the war in front of Percy. He pressed on anyway. “I ran away,” he said. “I ran away from the Battle of Hogwarts, unlike my seminars might have you believe, and then I ran away from Hogwarts for this job. Probably out of guilt.”

It was strange to acknowledge it like that. He had barely even thought about admitting it, but there it was on his tongue, like the taste of surrender.

“Zach,” Penelope said, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was running away,” Zacharias said simply. His head still spun a little, but the thought came to him with clarity. “I dropped Quidditch, you know. Even before I got this job. I dropped Quidditch even though Professor Sprout wanted me to captain the team this year. I ran away, because the game changed, and I wouldn’t have been playing for the same reasons as everyone else.”

“He stopped playing the violin too,” Celia said, looking up briefly.

“Viola,” Zacharias corrected reflexively. “But I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about running away.”

“You are talking about yourself,” Celia said. “You’re quite clearly talking about yourself.”

“Why did you run away?” Zacharias asked, looking Percy directly in the eye.

Percy blinked.

“Yeah,” Penelope said, “why _did_ you run away?”

“Because… because I felt distrusted,” Percy blurted. “I worked so hard, _so_ hard, and I was _still_ the black sheep in my family. Can you imagine how that felt? To be valued less than the _troublemakers_ , even though I put more effort into being the perfect son than any of them did? I thought I was valued at the Ministry—looking back, I obviously wasn’t. I was just some upstart. But it felt _good_ to have people who relied on me to get things done for them. When it came to a choice of whose side I would take, is it any wonder I sided with the only people who I felt had accepted me? Who _trusted_ me?”

In the wake of Percy’s rant, Zacharias couldn’t respond. It didn’t seem like any of them were going to, that he’d just keep going, but then Penelope spoke.

“You never told me that,” she said.

“How could I?” Percy said. “How could I put any of that into words?”

“You just did,” Celia pointed out.

Zacharias liked Celia when she was drunk. She didn’t mess around.

“Zacharias is right,” Percy said. “I ran away because I was scared. I didn’t tell you because I was scared. I let you break up with me. But Zacharias is wrong about one thing—I don’t want to get back together.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t?”

“No,” Percy said. “No, I—well, that doesn’t matter. I just want to be _friends_ again, Penny. I miss you.”

“This is getting way too emotional for me,” Celia said, sitting upright. “Want to go get another round, Zach?”

Zacharias looked between Percy and Penelope. They were having a _moment_ , and he was nowhere near drunk enough to witness it. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, getting up and following Celia.

Celia was a bit tipsy too, but she could at least walk in a straight line. Zacharias felt all topsy-turvy walking to the bar. He needed to order food, but he forgot.

“You know,” Celia said, looking back at their table, “this is really life-affirming. That those two can sort out their shit. Maybe you can, too.”

Zacharias furrowed his eyebrows. “You’re really fixated on the viola thing, huh?”

“Violin,” Celia said.

Frowning, Zacharias leant his elbows against the bar. Celia had a point. There he was, trying to fix Penelope and Percy’s problems—not that he cared about whether they were friends or not—and he’d barely done a thing towards sorting out his own. Sure, he’d fixed things with Anthony, but he wasn’t trying on any of the other stuff, like pretending to be a better person to appease his own sense of his social failings.

Maybe—and it was a very tentative maybe—he might have to fix a few of his own problems as well.

“Sure,” Zacharias said, “let’s say it was the violin.”

Celia narrowed her eyes. “Are you humouring me?”

“Yeah,” Zacharias said. “Hey. Let’s ditch this party and get fucked up.”

They took their drinks back to the table and hung out for a bit, but Penelope and Percy were catching up on each other’s lives, whatever it was they’d missed while they weren’t talking, and it was dead boring for an outsider. So they left, walking down a quiet Muggle street until they hit a main road, and from there they walked until they came to a Sainsbury’s. They bought the cheapest fortified wine they could find and Celia Apparated them back to her house.

Zacharias had never seen Celia’s house before—it was a terrace in Belsize Park, and she had the basement flat. It felt very lived-in, though, and Zacharias settled in right away. Or maybe that was the alcohol.

As nice as the flat was, Zacharias didn’t remember much of that night after the first few minutes. He woke the next morning on Celia’s couch to the smell of bacon and eggs and rolled off the edge of the couch, inching closer to the kitchen in a half-dead shuffle.

“Morning,” Celia said, no trace of a hangover in her voice. “Breakfast?”

“I’m a vegetarian,” Zacharias said. “Do you have any fruit juice?”

He lingered until he felt like he was overstaying, then caught the tube back to Anthony’s. Celia left him with a, “See you on Monday.” Zacharias felt like that was years away, not the other side of the weekend.

In fact, with the election over, Zacharias didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He spent a few days at a loose end before he realised that what he’d promised Anthony about sorting out his problems didn’t need to end where they’d left it. Maybe there were a few more issues with how he interacted with people. Maybe he’d been trying to ignore them because that was part of how he defined himself—and maybe that was unhealthy.

He resolved to start at the root of his problems: the lying. Obviously he couldn’t go back in time and un-present his seminars, and he wasn’t about to call some dramatic press conference to announce the truth, so he would just have to cope with people thinking he was a prefect with a London accent who’d fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. But there were lies he _could_ undo.

It was a Saturday afternoon when he set out to Kensington. His mother had agreed to meet him at a cafe near her house, because Zacharias had flat-out refused to go around to see Gordon and his daughters. He and his mother had a lot of catching up to do—at least, that was the reason he gave for wanting to see her—because she didn’t know anything about his job or his living conditions.

As always, her greeting was perfunctory. “Zacharias. I take it you’re living in London now.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m working for the government.”

Lorraine scoffed. “New Labour,” she said. “Just like your father.”

Typical of her to assume he meant the Muggle government, Zacharias thought. He wasn’t quite sure what New Labour stood for, and made a mental note to ask Anthony sometime.

“Actually,” Zacharias said, “I’m in public relations. It’s got nothing to do with politics, really.” And there he was lying again. At least this time it was for his mother’s benefit.

She shook her head. “I find it hard to believe that they let you relate with the public on any level.”

“You’d be surprised,” Zacharias said.

“Don’t try to talk it up,” Lorraine said. “An entry-level job like yours would be little more than desk work.”

If only she knew.

“And Antonia?” she continued. “She was a London girl, wasn’t she? Are you living with her?”

The subject of Anthony was where Zacharias had planned to start on his policy of truth, but it happened sooner than he expected and threw him off balance. “Er, not exactly,” he said.

“Please tell me you’ve broken up with that objectionable girl,” Lorraine said.

“Funny you should say that,” Zacharias said, as nonchalantly as he could manage, “because the girl you met at the wedding was—well, that was Tracey. She’s my best friend,”

 _Present tense_ , he reminded himself as he said it. None of this “ _was_ ” business. His friendship with Tracey was next on his list of things to fix.

Lorraine wasn’t easily stunned into silence, but on this occasion she came close. She tented her fingers and looked down at the peeling lino tabletop. “And might I ask,” she said, starting slowly, “why you brought your best friend to my wedding to _pretend_ to be your girlfriend?”

Taking a deep breath, Zacharias said, “Because there is no girlfriend.”

“You made her up to get me off your case,” Lorraine said. She didn’t laugh much, but when she did, it sounded like she was sucking on a lemon, the sound was so bitter. “I’m almost impressed. No wonder you’re working for New Labour, being able to lie like that.”

Zacharias didn’t bother to correct her on the New Labour thing, although he vaguely registered that his mother was displaying some sort of conservatism. Another thing to double-check with Anthony.

“You shouldn’t have gone to the effort,” she continued.

“Well,” Zacharias said, pressing his fingertips together under the table. “It wasn’t exactly a lie.”

When Lorraine indicated that she wasn’t going to reply, Zacharias laced his fingers together, pressing his palms flat together. This was the moment.

“There’s a boyfriend,” he said. “I mean, I _have_ a boyfriend. Anthony. Hence, er, _Antonia_. Er, his name’s Anthony Goldstein.”

Lorraine’s face remained impassive. “And is he—”

“Yes, mother,” Zacharias said, “he’s Jewish.”

“You know what I mean,” she snapped. “Is he a _school_ friend?”

“That’s right,” Zacharias said, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. “A Jewish Wiccan.”

“Unbelievable,” Lorraine said, shaking her head.

It almost looked like she was going to push out her chair and walk away, leaving her tea to go cold, so Zacharias spoke again. “That’s not all,” he said. “He’s from London, and he’s a _genius_. He was doing secondary school work when he was ten. He’s—he was Head Boy at school. And unlike me, he can talk to people without making them want to punch him in the face. You’d like him.”

“Would I,” Lorraine mused. It was a second before Zacharias noticed that she was smiling. “Why don’t you bring him to Christmas lunch, and we’ll see about that?”

“Obviously I’ll have to ask him if he’s free first,” Zacharias said, covering up for the fact that he was terrified by the very idea of Anthony and his mother’s family in the same room. _Why_ had he told her she’d like him?

“He’s Jewish,” Lorraine pointed out. “He shouldn’t be doing anything on Christmas.”

“Wow, you’ve sure got me there,” Zacharias said. “I’ve been found out. I guess I’ll have to force my _Jewish_ boyfriend to go to your _Christmas_ lunch.”

Lorraine rolled her eyes, clearly not amused. “You can ask him if he’s free,” she conceded. “See what he says.”

“I’ll ask him,” Zacharias said.

He tried to think of it as a promise. He wasn’t used to making genuine promises. Even the way the word sounded made him a little uneasy. He’d never promised his mother anything—or nothing since, “Yes, I’ll remember to take my hat to school tomorrow.” It had been so long since he’d been in anything close to a constructive relationship with either of his parents that he thought he’d have trouble adjusting to it.

But he would do it. He’d do whatever it took to make himself into someone he could be proud of, without having to lie about it to everyone else.

“See that you do,” Lorraine said.

For the first time, they parted without any tension in the atmosphere, and Zacharias went home feeling like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He’d never even realised the weight was there in the first place.

It felt like a conclusion to a story he didn’t know he’d started. And now, with the chapter finished and the book closed, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He took the long route back to the station, via the Victoria and Albert, and spent an hour wandering among antique tableware and glass jugs that served no functional purpose, but which he found bewitching anyway. And when he was home—Anthony’s flat, which really _did_ feel like home—he lay on the couch with his neck at a weird angle, arm twisted so that he was almost falling off, eyes unfocused sideways towards the floor, and did nothing. And that felt alright too.

That evening, he wrote to Anthony, detailing his conversation with his mother. There was no small amount of pride that came through in his words. It felt like he was saying, _See! I_ can _behave like everyone else! I can tell the truth!_ Although it did worry him that the satisfaction it gave him was so superficial—that he was more proud of an artifice than any authenticity.

The problem was, the real Zacharias wasn’t likeable. He had Anthony, sure, but Anthony “wrote-a-Muggle-Studies-essay-on-boy-bands” Goldstein had questionable tastes at best, so Zacharias didn’t trust his judgement. He used to have Tracey, too—and the less said about her opinions of people, the better.

No, the Weasleys and Potters and Grangers of this world were the nice ones, the ones that nice people were drawn to. Maybe they wouldn’t cut it in politics, but they were good people. Wasn’t that what was supposed to matter? Wasn’t that what being a Hufflepuff was all about? Kindness, loyalty, honesty, hard work—Zacharias didn’t think he had any of those qualities.

Could he ever?

The question stayed with him as the weekend wore on, but by Monday, Zacharias was ready to be a bastard again. The Ministry was waiting. His job was waiting, and he had a seminar to prepare for. He couldn’t afford to aim for the new Zacharias at work.

At lunch, he dragged himself out to the pub that served as the Ministry employee’s de facto cafeteria. Everyone else was busy with post-election business and, miraculously, the job of writing press releases for the international audience had fallen to Maureen—or rather, Maureen had volunteered enthusiastically for the job. Perhaps she felt jealous that Zacharias had been in charge of filtering the international news during the election.

Armed with a salad and an indulgent mug of butterbeer, Zacharias took to a table for two. A moment later, Penelope sat down in front of him.

“Thought I might find you here,” she said. “How was your weekend?”

With a piece of lettuce between his teeth, Zacharias blinked at her. “I—it was alright… ?”

“That’s good,” Penelope said. She slumped back in her chair, sighing. “I had dinner with Percy last night.”

“Oh,” Zacharias said. What else was there to say?

Penelope reached across the table and plucked a lettuce leaf from Zacharias’ plate with her fingers. He watched her eat it in a stagnant silence. He hadn’t forgotten their last conversation, and clearly she hadn’t either. He hadn’t forgotten the tension after he’d admitted to her that he was lying—that he was just like Percy.

Eventually—it could have been minutes, but it felt like longer—Penelope spoke again. “I want you to know, categorically, that I am not mad at you.”

“For taking Percy’s side? For making myself seem a bit better than I am?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Penelope said. “You know, you always struck me as a good kid. You work hard at your job, you’re honest in your opinions—and you’ve got a sense of humour and a Scottish accent, which always works. And I like your company. So does it really matter that you ran away from the battle, and from Hogwarts?”

“Depends,” Zacharias said, “on whose side you’re on.”

Penelope shook her head. “I’m over taking sides, Zach. I’m over it. You’re my friend, and so I don’t forgive you, because there’s nothing to forgive. Let’s move on.”

Zacharias breathed in and out slowly. “Yeah. Alright. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Penelope said, her usual lightness returning to her voice. “So, Percy.”

“Percy?”

“Merlin’s beard, Zach, you would not _believe_ how little he has changed.” The way she spoke so easily made Zacharias think she’d been dying to talk to someone about this, and maybe he was the only one who’d get it. “He wouldn’t shut up about work. That’s all he cares about! No wonder he’s not interested in getting back together, huh? He’s married to his job, and he loves it.”

“It takes a special sort of dedication,” Zacharias mused.

Penelope nodded. “Right? But he’s relaxing a bit, too. The War hit him hard—and god, Fred’s death, that can’t have done him any favours.”

Zacharias hadn’t even known one of the Weasleys was dead. That put things in a slightly different light.

“But Percy—he’s resilient,” Penelope continued. “I hate to say it, but I’m proud of him. I think I’m ready to be his friend again, properly.”

“Thus rendering me superfluous,” Zacharias joked. “Think of me when you go out drinking.”

“As if Percy would be caught dead getting up to the kind of things we get up to with Celia!” Penelope laughed. “No, I meant what I said. You and I, we’re friends. And if you ever need to talk to me about anything—well, I like to think that we can be honest with each other, with no judgement.”

Zacharias wasn’t good at talking about his feelings. Maybe, _maybe_ , he could try. Maybe it would be easier than trying so hard to be a nice person. Maybe being honest would make him likeable.

Maybe he didn’t need to be likeable to be happy with himself.

Before he could think about it too hard, Penelope interrupted him. “Promise me, yeah?”

He remembered how hard and unnatural it’d felt to make a promise to his mother. This, by comparison, felt like the easiest thing he would ever have to do.

“Yeah,” he said. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment!


	18. Chapter 18

On the 19th of December, Zacharias woke up early, unable to sleep for… excitement? Worry? _Something_ was gnawing at him. It wasn’t until half an hour and two early morning infomercials later that he realised that going to King’s Cross, meeting Anthony on Platform 9¾, probably also meant seeing Tracey.

Zacharias wasn’t quite ready to make nice with Tracey, even if he wanted to. Rather, he didn’t think she’d be ready to make nice with him, and he wasn’t ready for whatever retribution she had in store. He’d heard nothing secondhand from Anthony, even now that they were writing daily again, and he really didn’t know what to expect. He hated not knowing things, and surprises were even worse.

The morning was sluggish, and it took two cups of tea—one at home, one at the cafe—before he felt courageous enough think about his trip to the station. It was still too early, so he went back to the cafe and forced himself to eat something, then spent the next few hours hour sitting in the park with a few magazines, mentally drafting what he might say to Tracey.

“I’m sorry.”

He knew he had to be sorry for something, but what? Why did he need to initiate the apology, when she was the one who’d started shouting at him?

“I’ve missed you.”

True, but too sentimental. Wouldn’t do for Tracey.

“Let’s be friends again.”

Better. Certainly concise. But might it not be enough?

In the end, it was simple. Zacharias had barely made it through the barrier to the platform when he saw Tracey getting off the train. He was hit by a bout of queasiness. It would’ve been much more comforting to have Anthony there for this, but Anthony, ever the diligent Head Boy, would still be on the train making sure everything was in order.

For a moment, Zacharias considered leaving, waiting outside and pretending he’d never seen her. It wouldn’t be hard. He was very tall, and she was a passably average height, and for all she knew he was looking right over her head. But Anthony wouldn’t forgive him for skipping out on their dramatic platform reunion, and Zacharias wouldn’t forgive himself if he kept avoiding Tracey. So he stood still and let her approach him.

“Smith.”

He took a deep breath. “Davis.”

Instead of replying straight away, Tracey’s arm shot out to punch Zacharias in the side. “That’s for leaving,” she said, “before we could make things right again.”

“You know me,” Zacharias said, trying to keep his tone light. “I always run away from my problems.”

“That’s true,” Tracey said. “Don’t know what I expected.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then she laughed, a little hesitant. “You know why I was annoyed at you?” she asked.

“I’ve worked a lot of things out in hindsight,” Zacharias said. “One, I dropped Quidditch without telling you why. Two, I was being thick about the whole business with Anthony. And three—” Zacharias paused, pressing his fingers into the outsides of his thighs, “—I said some really rude shit to you, Tracey, which I shouldn’t have, which I didn’t mean, and—and I’m sorry, I guess.”

Tracey smirked. “You _guess_?”

“Don’t make me give you anything more,” Zacharias said. “ _Sorry_ doesn’t come naturally.”

“I’d never have guessed,” Tracey said, laughing. “Still. I’m just not going to apologise to you.”

“I’d be worried if you did,” Zacharias said, “since you’ve got nothing to apologise for.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Tracey said. Her face settled into a familiar grin, and for the first time in a long time, Zacharias felt comfortable.

Now that he’d done it—apologised, _properly_ —he could move on with his life, tick another item off the list of setting things right. He felt compelled to say something more, maybe embarrass himself with another apology, something a little more excessive, when his eye caught Anthony’s through the crowd, through the smoke clouding the platform. The next thing he knew, Anthony was running at him full tilt, and nearly knocked him off his feet with a hug.

“Alright,” Anthony said, arms wrapped around Zacharias’ neck, standing unsteadily on his toes, “ready to start some rumours?”

Zacharias didn’t need to be asked. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, his hands came to either side of Anthony’s face, pulling them together for a kiss. Slowly, Zacharias adjusted the way they were standing, bending so Anthony didn’t have to stretch. It was hard to focus on shifting _and_ kissing, so the kissing lapsed for a moment, but they stayed close, lips slotted together around the smile that hadn’t left Anthony’s face. Zacharias wasn’t sure whether or not he was smiling—he might’ve been, but he preferred to think he wasn’t, just in case anyone was looking. He’d forgotten how messy kissing was. Now he just felt sloppy and embarrassing.

From somewhere nearby, he could hear Tracey saying, “Disgusting. Absolutely abject.”

“Oh,” Zacharias said, ignoring her, “happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Anthony said. He pulled back a bit, but his arms kept resting on Zacharias’ shoulders. “Still taking me out for dinner tonight?”

“If you want,” Zacharias said. “Or we can stay in.”

“I vote going out,” Tracey said, prising them apart. “Goldstein’s been so busy being Head bloody Boy that he hasn’t been hanging out with anyone. He just sits in the library and writes letters to you. Or studies with _Granger_.”

“Come on,” Anthony said, “that’s not fair. Hermione is in the same position as me.”

“Yeah,” Tracey said, “a twat with responsibility. Time to let that go.”

Anthony gave Tracey a concerned look. “Are you sure you wouldn’t feel like a third wheel?”

“I’ve _always_ felt like a third wheel with you two,” Tracey said. “I do have other friends, you know.”

Zacharias cleared his throat. “Er. Does this mean you’re…”

“Forgiving you?” Tracey guessed.

“Something like that,” Zacharias said.

Tracey took a while to answer, folding her arms and looking pensive. “I think I forgave you a while ago,” she said. “I just didn’t _want_ to. Because you’re such a _dickhead_.”

“I am,” Zacharias agreed.

She glared at him. “See? Stuff like that makes me distrust you. Am I supposed to believe you’re some reformed saint? That there’s a New Zacharias?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Zacharias said, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “I’m just… trying to be a better person, or some shite.”

“I told him it would ruin the effect a bit, but he didn’t listen,” Anthony said.

To Zacharias’ surprise, Tracey’s smile softened. “I’m with Anthony on this one. Don’t try _too_ hard to be better. You’re already my best friend. Idiot.”

She punched him in the arm, and it hurt quite a bit, but Zacharias could only laugh. It was a strange mixture of elation and relief that he wasn’t sure he’d experienced before, but it felt right, so he let it happen.

“Wow,” Tracey said, “you _have_ changed.”

“So,” Anthony said, interrupting what was probably some sort of touching moment by clapping his hands together. “Dinner?”

“I promised you we’d go somewhere fancy,” Zacharias said, “but I think we should save that for an actual date. No offence, Tracey.”

“Absolutely none taken,” Tracey said.

“I’m not really feeling up to ’fancy,’ anyway,” Anthony said. “Let’s just get takeaway.”

Zacharias could think of nothing better. He was ready to leave, when Anthony’s attention turned.

“Oh! Mike, Terry!”

Tracey gave Zacharias a dark look, which he returned with a scowl.

“Are you in a rush?” Anthony asked his friends.

Michael cast a significant and not entirely pleased glance at how close Zacharias was standing to Anthony. “Depends,” he said. “What’s up?”

“It’s my birthday,” Anthony said, “in case you’d forgotten.”

The look they shared said that Anthony’s birthday had already been celebrated, and that this conversation was mostly for show. Zacharias wondered when he’d gotten so good at reading looks. He’d only been in his job for a few months, but he was a different person from whoever he’d been the last time he stood on Platform 9 ¾.

“Mike’s bad with numbers,” Terry said, and Michael elbowed him in the ribs.

“What was it you got in Arithmancy again?” Anthony joked. “No, don’t answer that—listen, reckon you can stay in London for a bit? Us locals were going to head out for dinner, and, well, I’d like it if my two sets of friends could spend some time together.”

Now Michael turned properly, to glare at Zacharias and Tracey. “I guess,” he told Anthony. “What did you have planned?”

“I thought we could get takeaway and go back to mine,” Anthony said.

“What, Corner,” Tracey said, “scared of us?”

He didn’t answer straight away. Terry, in contrast, looked seconds away from laughter. Zacharias was gratified, at least, that Terry seemed to have forgiven whatever unspoken slight he’d committed.

“You should be,” Tracey said. She slung one arm around Anthony’s shoulder and, with a bit of reaching, Zacharias’ too. “’Cause we’re gonna drink you under the fucking table.”

That did it. “Is that a challenge, Davis?”

“Oh, and I’m sure you’re out partying every night at Hogwarts,” Zacharias said. “You all have a lot of catching up to do.”

“I will take you _down_ ,” Michael assured them.

First, though, they needed to actually buy the drinks—and some food. Zacharias had let his supplies dwindle to an empty fridge, and all of a sudden he had to feed five. Although it was early in the evening, the others were hungry from a day on the train. And standing in the supermarket in front of the crisps, Zacharias realised he’d forgotten to eat lunch.

They caught the tube together, walking as a pack, but they were cleft down the middle. Anthony stood between Terry on one side and Tracey on the other, while Michael and Zacharias kept as far apart as possible. Zacharias went through a mental list of reasons why Michael might hate him. He wondered if it was something to do with the fact that Michael had dated Ginny—who he was telling a story about—but Zacharias doubted it.

A few streets away from Anthony’s flat, he finally worked it out. The trick was finding the right way to bring it up, but Zacharias was a politician now, and he’d learnt a thing or two about timing.

“I don’t see why she was so mad,” Michael was saying. “It’s not like I was trying to get back with her or anything.”

“Maybe it’s something to do with your attitude to relationships,” Zacharias said.

They stopped at a pedestrian crossing. Michael stuck his head forward to look past Terry, Anthony, and Tracey. “What did you say?”

“Well,” Zacharias said, “think about it. You took against me when it became clear I hadn’t realised Anthony was interested in me, didn’t you? But look how that worked out. Maybe you just take relationships a little too seriously.”

The light turned green. They crossed.

“I don’t see how you’re qualified to give me relationship advice,” Michael said.

Zacharias knew he’d hit a nerve—it felt like plucking a string and hearing all the harmonics. For Anthony’s sake, though, he would tread carefully. “I’m not trying to give you advice,” he said. “I’m stating fact.”

“Yeah, alright,” Michael said, a touch of impatience in his voice. “I was pissed off. But you were the one being a right fucking idiot to Ant.”

“And you’re the one who hasn’t gotten over it yet,” Zacharias said.

They came to a pause outside Anthony’s block. “How about this,” Anthony said. “The moment we walk through the door, we start afresh. You two? Make a fucking effort.”

Tracey laughed loud enough to startle all of Anthony’s neighbours. One of the curtains opened a crack, and then snapped shut. Zacharias relaxed, just a bit.

Past the threshold, they became quiet, reverent. Leading everyone into Anthony’s flat felt wrong, and Zacharias felt himself tense. This was, for all intents and purposes, _his_ flat, his sanctuary away from the Ministry, and now it was full of people—people he knew, but nevertheless… he’d only had Penelope and Celia in here before.

But Anthony fit right in. He fit in with the books left lying around, the ones Zacharias had never bothered to put away. He fit in the way he relaxed into the environment immediately.

Of course. It was his home, after all.

“Something feels off,” Anthony said, taking off his scarf, and gloves, and heavy coat. “Did you—are there heating charms in here?”

Zacharias had on several more layers than Anthony, and he was fine. He let his fingers twist around his wand, almost reflexively. “Is that a problem?”

“You,” Anthony said, confused. “You’re not warm at all.”

“Coldest person I know,” Tracey agreed. “Can’t even crack a smile.”

Anthony laughed, but he kept a more severe look on his face. “Can you maybe tone it down? The heat, I mean.”

As Zacharias adjusted his charms, it occurred to him that he was the newest to this flat, even though he’d probably stayed here for a longer uninterrupted stretch than any of them. Michael and Terry had known about it when Anthony first moved in, so surely they’d been here. And Tracey had visited last summer. But to Zacharias, they were Hogwarts people, and this was his post-Hogwarts life they’d just walked into. Not for the first time, he felt adrift, as though he were living in limbo.

“It must be weird having us all here,” Anthony said.

Zacharias shot him a look. “Been working on your Legilimency?”

“Hardly,” Anthony said, in that tone that meant he sort of had, but he wasn’t going to own up to it because—well, you wouldn’t need to be a mind-reader to see that Zacharias was nervous, still standing by the door and twisting his fingers together.

“Maybe we need to do something to break the ice.”

Zacharias was surprised to realise it was Terry who had spoken. “Didn’t you hear?” he said. “Corner and I are making a fresh start.”

“But metaphorically,” Terry said. “I just mean… well, this is like meeting in the middle, isn’t it? Only we haven’t quite met yet.”

“Nothing builds bridges like alcohol,” Michael said.

“No, he’s right,” Tracey said. “Before we start drinking we need to get comfortable around each other. Trust me—never drink with people you hate.”

“W-well, hate is a strong word,” Terry said, “but that’s the principle.”

Michael had already reached into their shopping bags and cracked open a bottle of cider. “Have you got any ideas, then?”

“I do, yeah,” Zacharias said. “At the beginning of term—back at Hogwarts—all of us Hufflepuffs were being awkward, just like this.” He declined to mention that it was mostly his fault. “So we sat in a circle and went around, admitting to all this shite we’d been keeping bottled up for as long as we’d known each other.” He also declined to mention that he’d been awful at it. But it was an idea—and he sort of agreed with Terry and Tracey. They needed to do _something_.

His idea was met with silence. And then, a beat later, Anthony said, “That’s the most Hufflepuff bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

“I’ll start us off, then,” Zacharias offered, ignoring the insult.

“Oh, this’ll be good,” Tracey said.

Zacharias frowned. “Half of you know this already, but a few months ago I convinced most of my mother’s family that I had a girlfriend called Antonia. _Before_ we were dating.”

Michael snorted, spilling a little cider onto the floor. “That’s just embarrassing.”

“One-up me,” Zacharias said. He knew Michael wouldn’t back down from a challenge.

“Alright,” Michael said. He put his cider to one side, rubbing his hands together. “Who wants to hear about my first time?”

“None of us, please,” Terry said, reaching for a cider.

“Well, you can tell me,” Tracey said. She gave Michael a patronising tap on the head. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

“Sharing secrets is not meant to be the Michael Corner Sex Hour,” Anthony said. He paused. “Although, this seems like a story you’ve never told us.”

Terry frowned. “Huh. You’re right. I feel like you’ve talked about it, but never the specifics … ?”

“Um,” Michael said. He looked down into his cider. “Actually. I’ve never had—you know. Sex.”

If it weren’t for Zacharias laughing (unable to stop for the best part of three minutes), there might have been one of those long, awkward silences, the kind that can only be saved by someone delicately changing the subject. As it was, Tracey and Anthony caught onto the laughter, and even Terry joined after a while.

Michael slapped a hand to his forehead. “This is not funny! I told this to you in _confidence_ —”

“For all your boasting,” Terry said, “you have to admit it is a _little_ funny.”

“Come on, then,” Michael said, elbowing him, “what’s _your_ secret?”

“I asked Lisa out,” Terry said, so quickly that Zacharias mightn’t have caught it. “I never told you because, well, she said no. And then she went missing, and I didn’t want to say, and—”

“You don’t need to tell us,” Anthony said, putting a hand on Terry’s arm.

“Yes he does,” Michael said. “If I had to, then we all do.”

Tracey, ever the life of the party, took the opportunity to yawn loudly. She reached into their shopping bag and took out two bottles of cider. “I’m bored already,” she said.

Zacharias watched in fascination as Terry’s features relaxed, traced the appreciative glance that passed between him and Tracey. She had always been alert of social nuances in a way that Zacharias had only mastered lately, but he’d never seen her use her powers for good. It gave him a weird, warm feeling—if pressed, he might have called it friendship, or longing, or some combination of the two. He’d missed Tracey. He’d missed all of them.

As Tracey reached out to hand Zacharias one of the ciders, he nudged her with the bottom of his bottle. “And your secret?”

“I have no secrets,” Tracey said. “Everyone knows everything they need to know about me—and if they don’t, they just have to ask.”

“But we don’t know what to ask unless you give us something to start with,” Anthony said.

Tracey tapped the bottle on her chin. “Well, let’s see what I can think of …”

As it turned out, Tracey had more secrets than the lot of them put together—but she was open, with fewer qualms sharing things. Terry warmed up to her as the night wore on, laughed at all her jokes, but Michael kept a wary distance. The conversation was easy, never awkward, but relentless. Every now and then, Zacharias caught a look of such contentment on Anthony’s face that he had to pause, look away, maybe smile into his shoulder.

It became stifling after a while. The sociability drained him. But the flat could breathe again once Tracey, Terry, and Michael were gone. Head buzzing from the cider, Zacharias curled himself against the arm of the couch. The heating charms were all but gone, and the drinks would wear off soon, and then he’d be cold, and he didn’t know where any of his jackets were.

He felt the couch slump as Anthony sat down next to him. “Zach.”

Zacharias groaned.

“Zach,” Anthony said again, dropping his head onto Zacharias’ shoulder. “Too much at once?”

“Just wasn’t ready for all that,” Zacharias said. Anthony was warm against his side, which was something.

“It was a bad call on my part,” Anthony said. “I shouldn’t have invited everyone over. I just thought… I wanted everyone to get on. And… you did.”

“We did,” Zacharias agreed. “Eventually. And now I want to sleep for the next five hundred years.”

Anthony laughed, sliding further down onto the couch. “You’re good to put up with me. We should just go to bed.”

Shifting, his legs feeling longer and messier than usual, Zacharias managed to get to his feet. It was only once he was standing that he realised Anthony was supporting him. “Severing Charm,” he said. “That’s how your bed works, right?”

“Zach—”

“We cast a Severing Charm, and your bed splits in two.” Zacharias nodded, proud of himself for remembering. “You told me that.”

“I did,” Anthony said, “but you’re an idiot. It’s a _double_ bed.”

“I _have_ been sleeping in it,” Zacharias said. “That must make it easier to split.”

When Anthony smiled, it did stupid things to Zacharias’ chest, like someone was trying to clench a fist around his heart. “We don’t _need_ to split it,” Anthony said, and that took a moment to settle, but when it did, Zacharias felt even more alive.

“Ah. Right.”

The bedroom was too cold, but the bed itself was warm. Zacharias found a place on the right side instead of in the middle, reshaping the blankets around him. He was exhausted—socially and physically—and he fell straight asleep, flat on his back with a sheet pulled over his eyes.

He woke up with the side of his face sinking into a pillow and an arm slung over him. Not uncomfortable, but unusual—enough to make him jump. He jerked upright, and the cold morning air rushed around him. He hadn’t even bothered to put on pyjamas the night before, just climbed in wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing all day. Beside him, face down on the other pillow, Anthony hadn’t even stirred. Quietly, Zacharias got up and, with a heating charm cast precisely onto his feet, shuffled into the kitchen.

On the morning after a party, the flat always felt empty, this morning more than most. Before the bread had even finished toasting, Anthony shuffled into the kitchen and sat on the counter by the stove. Zacharias watched as he rubbed his eyes, barely noticing when the toaster popped.

“We need to stock the kitchen,” Anthony said.

“Surely not,” Zacharias said. “Let’s live in squalor for a little longer.”

Anthony laughed. With the unlikely advantage of height, he reached out a hand and ruffled Zacharias’ fringe. “But what if we had guests over? Um, hypothetically.”

“That doesn’t sound very hypothetical,” Zacharias said. “You know Tracey doesn’t mind our minimalist catering.”

“Um.” Anthony cleared his throat, leaving his hand tangled in Zacharias’ hair, but looking away. “I may have accidentally invited some people over for dinner.”

Zacharias reached up and put his hand over Anthony’s. “Define _some people_.”

“You know I’ve been spending a lot of time with Hermione lately,” he said. “Well, Tracey put it differently, but we’ve become good friends, really. So I might have, um, offered to have her over, along with Ron—”

“You must really hate me,” Zacharias said. He prised Anthony’s hand off his forehead, keeping their fingers slotted together.

“Horribly,” Anthony said. “See, I’m letting your toast burn.”

“It was your toast,” Zacharias said. “I mean, I made it for you. I don’t tend to eat breakfast.”

Anthony sighed, climbing off the counter and peering into the toaster. “It looks fine. You didn’t have to, you know.”

“I’m making an effort.”

“You’re doing well,” Anthony said. “So, what do you say to sticking around for a conciliatory dinner sometime next week?”

Zacharias shrugged. “Don’t suppose I have much choice.”

“Sorry for being such a shit boyfriend,” Anthony said.

From either side of the toaster, they watched each other for a few quiet moments before Anthony cracked a smile. Zacharias managed to mirror it. There was something weird and intimate about holding hands in a kitchen, still something tentative in the air. But they were getting there, sliding ever closer to being comfortable with an entirely new mode of living.

First, though, Zacharias had to get through an evening with two of his worst enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was so much fun to write all these guys again after so long. Please leave a comment/come chat to me about Tracey/etc!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had particular fun with this chapter. It includes a scene which I've been planning in exquisite detail since very early on in the process of writing this fic. I hope you enjoy it!

Zacharias had known it was a bad idea since Anthony first mentioned it. He also knew that he was going to put up with it anyway, because it was for Anthony, and Zacharias was only human. Still, as the doorbell rang, a shiver of horror ran down his spine—the sense that everything was about to go spectacularly, disastrously wrong, and he could do absolutely _nothing_ to stop it.

When Anthony went to the door he was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a salad. Pampered by the magical feasts at Hogwarts, neither of them were particularly good cooks—Anthony knew how to fry things and how to turn on an oven, and Zacharias could prepare an egg five ways, probably because it was the sole grocery his father ever bought on the regular. So they settled on a frittata (they only knew what it was called because they’d spent an hour in Foyles leafing through cookbooks) and a bunch of salads. Anthony was very respectful about keeping it vegetarian, but he wasn’t sure how popular a decision that would be.

Zacharias grit his teeth to the tune of voices coming from the front door, focusing deliberately on the kitchen countertop.

“This is a very nice place, Anthony,” Hermione said.

Anthony laughed, a little nervously. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Messy?” Ron said. “This is nothing.”

 _Wait until you see the salad_ , Zacharias thought, chucking a few walnuts on top. He wasn’t really sure what was meant to go in salads. He’d read a lot in cookbooks and promptly forgotten approximately all of it, so he resorted to just throwing things together to see what happened. This salad consisted of miscellaneous green things, tinned beetroot, some sort of soft cheese, and the walnuts, all drowned in vinegar. It _looked_ alright.

“How’s the salad going?” Anthony asked, popping his head into the kitchen.

“Yeah, not too bad,” Zacharias said. “Not sure it’ll be edible, but we’ll see.”

Hermione and Ron were sitting on the couch, examining Anthony’s books on the coffee table. While their backs were turned, Anthony slipped an arm around Zacharias’ waist. Zacharias was still getting used to it, this sort of casual intimacy, and it jarred a little that Anthony was shorter, and had to reach upwards.

“You’ll be fine,” Anthony said quietly.

“I was talking about the food,” Zacharias said.

Anthony smirked up at him. “I know.”

Heading into the main room, Anthony leant over the back of the couch. “You two ready to eat?”

Zacharias was responsible for setting the table of his own accord. It was meant to minimise the amount of talking he had to do, but Hermione seemed to catch onto that pretty quickly.

“How’s your job at the Ministry, Zacharias?” she asked. It wasn’t forced, but friendly, and Zacharias felt instinctively wary.

“It’s a job,” he said, deliberately vague. He sat down, and the others followed.

“You liaise with the Prophet, don’t you?” Hermione pressed.

Zacharias shrugged. “A little bit.”

“He’s being modest,” Anthony said, pausing his task of filling their plates. “He does an awful lot.”

“You have to say that,” Zacharias said.

Anthony rolled his eyes. “What do you reckon, Hermione? Does kindness come as an obligation in these circumstances?”

“I’m only ever honest,” Hermione said primly.

For a flickering moment, Ron and Zacharias made eye contact, and there was some sort of shared emotion passing between them. It was lost, though, in the sound of cutlery clinking together.

“Very wise,” Anthony said. “You’ll make a good politician.”

Zacharias couldn’t help himself. “Are you planning on a career in politics?” he asked.

Hermione’s lips narrowed into an almost-perfect straight line. “It’s one of the avenues I’m considering,” she said. “I’m sure Anthony’s already told you about it, but we’ve both been invited to a few events at the Ministry this winter.”

“He hadn’t told me,” Zacharias said. He stabbed his fork at a walnut and watched helplessly as it rolled off his plate.

“I was going to make it a surprise,” Anthony said lightly, but Zacharias could hear a note of tension. “You know, drop in on you at work.”

“Like you said, I do an awful lot,” Zacharias said. His voice came out more strained than he had intended. “I would probably be too busy to see you. Nothing personal, Ant.”

“Actually,” Hermione said, cutting through what she probably saw as a brewing argument, “I think one of the events on our schedule is one of your seminars, Zacharias.”

That really did stop Zacharias in his tracks. He put his fork down. “You’ll be bored shitless. There’s not much I have to say that you don’t already know.”

“I’m sure you have an insight into the Ministry that neither of us could ever have,” Hermione said. “Second-hand knowledge is one thing, but to be first-hand, in the midst of the action … well, there’s obviously no substitute for that.”

“If you’re getting your second-hand knowledge from the Prophet, then it’s _less_ than one thing,” Zacharias said. “It’s closer to half a thing. A quarter. You’d be better off getting your news from Witch Weekly.”

“You’re still reading Witch Weekly?” Anthony asked. Zacharias shot him a look, and Anthony grinned back. There was a piece of miscellaneous green sticking out from between his teeth. Zacharias looked away.

“Actually,” Hermione said, “most of what I’ve heard is from Ron and Harry—”

“Oh, if _Harry_ said it, then it _must_ be true,” Zacharias cut in.

“—and Neville,” Hermione finished, “since they’re working with the Auror department.”

“What’s your deal?” Ron asked, jerking back in his seat so that his knee hit the underside of the table. He didn’t seem to notice. “Why do you hate Harry so bloody much?”

Zacharias stared at him for a few seconds before he could even process that Ron had spoken. He _had_ made a disparaging joke about Harry, hadn’t he? “I don’t see why the hell that’s any of your business,” he said eventually.

“It’s all of my business,” Ron said, “because Harry’s my best mate! You never gave him a break, though, not once. You came to the DA meetings just to rile him up, and then you pissed off whenever it suited you. I deserve to know as well as anyone why you treated him—treated _us_ —like _this_.”

“You really fucking want to know?” Zacharias snapped, composure shattering in an instant, years and years of feeling like the butt of someone’s joke flooding up from his chest to his shoulders and down his arms. He gripped his fork until his knuckles turned white. “It started in first year.”

 _Shit_. Why had he let that out? He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t meant for anyone to know that, least of all two of Harry Potter’s best friends.

“We didn’t even know you in first year,” Ron said, agape.

“Sure,” Zacharias said, hesitantly, before finding his voice again. “But everyone knew who Harry Potter was. Me? I couldn’t have cared less about the Boy Who Lived. I didn’t grow up with the mythology. I was raised as a Muggle. He meant didn’t mean anything to me. Actually, lots of things about magic meant nothing to me. I was mediocre in class. I didn’t really have friends. I wasn’t even sure I was meant to be in Hufflepuff.”

Anthony’s hand closed over Zacharias’ knee under the table. It took the tension right out of him in a way that he couldn’t have expected, and gave him the push he needed to keep going.

“I found something, though. I found the only thing that meant something. Flying. I’d never touched a broom in my life, but when I picked it up that day, it felt _right_. And I flew better and more naturally than everyone else in the class, even the purebloods. After the lesson, Madam Hooch came up to me and said, ’With a bit of hard work, you could make an excellent Chaser for Hufflepuff next year.’ I remember her tone of voice and everything.”

It reassured him to see that Ron and Hermione were a captive audience. It was like giving a seminar: they wanted to know what came next, and Zacharias found that he wanted them to know, too.

“I told everyone,” he continued. “I was so excited, I showed off, I let everyone know I would be a Chaser for Hufflepuff next year. I asked the Quidditch Captain when they practised, so I could watch, and what time the other teams practised, so I could find some time to fly. And then you know what happened. They broke the rules for Harry fucking Potter, the _Chosen One_ , and my fifteen minutes of fame were over. After all, who cared about some bloke working hard for the thing he wanted more than anything, when someone who already had it all could have it handed to him on a plate? It’s a fucking fairytale. No-one would give a shit about Cinderella going to the ball if she didn’t have a Fairy Godmother to make her beautiful first.”

Zacharias waited for Ron to yell at him, to tell him he was being an irrational prick, but it never came. Instead, Ron exhaled.

“I know what it’s like,” he said, “to feel second-best to Harry.”

“ _Ron_!” Hermione chided him.

“No, I mean it,” Ron said. “Harry will always be my best friend, but there were times when I… when I felt how you feel. I don’t want to admit it, but it’s no good to pretend it never happened.”

Zacharias narrowed his eyes. “Are you just saying that? To get me to shut up?”

“Bloody hell!” Ron said, waving his fork at Zacharias. “You really are a tosser, aren’t you? Here I am trying to make you feel better, since apparently no-one’s ever done that before, and you—”

“Thanks,” Zacharias interrupted. “I mean. For trying. I think it worked.”

It took a moment, but Ron cracked a smile. Zacharias smiled back faintly. He had never been that good at getting a joke across.

“You’re welcome,” Ron said. “I think.”

Zacharias never thought he’d thank a Weasley for anything, not even Percy, but it was funny how these things turned out. And it felt good to _tell_ someone. Vocalising it only made Zacharias realise how stupid he’d been to bottle it up for so long. He should’ve told Tracey before anyone—then maybe she’d understand why he’d stopped playing Quidditch.

Ron frowned down at his half-eaten serving of frittata.

“Er, if it makes you feel better,” Zacharias said, “I don’t really hate _him_. I hate the way people treat him, what it always represented.” He was digging himself a hole, but now that the floodgates were open, words were just pouring out. “He was there when Cedric died, and—and none of your lot ever really gave me answers about that. I still don’t know _how_ he died.”

“I didn’t know you were close to Cedric,” Ron said, his voice oddly quiet.

“I was,” Zacharias said. He rubbed his eye. In so many ways, everything he’d done after then had been for Cedric. It was because of Cedric that he’d left, on the night of the Battle. Because he wasn’t going to die for Harry Potter.

“It doesn’t excuse all those times you acted like a shit to us,” Ron said, “but I’m willing to try a truce.”

He reached across the table. It took a second before Zacharias realised he wanted to shake hands.

“Alright,” Zacharias said. “Truce. Stranger things have happened.”

Ron laughed, and even Hermione smiled a bit. Zacharias looked to Anthony for confirmation—he was beaming. This was the right thing to do.

And the evening wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. Once Ron opened up a bit, he was full of humour and stories about his work as an Auror-in-training, tracking down the last of the Death Eaters. Hermione relaxed into the conversation. At a push, Zacharias could see the appeal of being around someone like her. She was well-meaning, if overwhelming. Given time—a _lot_ of time—Zacharias wondered if he might be able to call them his friends.

With Ron and Hermione one night and Christmas dinner at his mother’s house shortly after, company seemed to be inescapable. Zacharias presumed he would be the very picture of exhaustion by the time it was all over, but the wave of frustrated apathy never came. Dealing with people was getting… easier. Zacharias wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or frightened by that.

But then there was the seminar to think about. Socialising was a little different to giving seminars. Letting those two worlds blur together was not something he could really conceptualise, let alone prepare for. _Anthony_ would be there. Not that Anthony was judgemental—to his friends, at least—but he would make eye contact and throw Zacharias off without even trying. Something _would_ go wrong.

So he fell back into old habits—as the seminar drew nearer and nearer, he isolated himself more and more, spent longer and longer at his desk, and less and less time at Anthony’s flat. Now that Anthony was back in it, it really _was_ his flat again, so Zacharias figured he wouldn’t mind if he had it to himself a little more often. Anyway, he was busy too, with his Ministry work experience. They fit themselves temporarily to the pattern.

Zacharias had changed parts of his seminar. Revisions kept occurring to him, details that would make his story slightly more credible. His words came easier than when he’d started. His London accent came easier, too. What would Anthony have to say to that?

The morning of, he skipped his cup of tea and got to the Ministry early, just after six. Not even Thaddeus was at his desk. He came in around half-six, a spring in his step like it was midday.

Eventually Celia arrived too, although Zacharias didn’t notice until she whacked him over the head with the Christmas edition of Witch Weekly. “Are you awake there?”

“I suppose I am,” Zacharias said. He lifted a corner of his parchment away from Celia.

“What’s this about?”

She didn’t try to look at the parchment. She just sat on the edge of his desk, flipping through the magazine. Zacharias hadn’t even checked his copy of the Christmas issue. When it arrived by owl, Anthony had laughed so hard that Zacharias had hidden it. Anthony had found it, though, and dogeared a few pages; Zacharias hadn’t seen it since.

“Seminar today,” he said. “The biggest of my career.”

“Your _career_ ,” Celia mocked. “You’re eighteen!”

Zacharias looked down at his desk. “I know. Some people my age are coming to listen.”

“Your school friends?” Celia asked.

“Er,” Zacharias said. “Sort of.”

Celia clasped her hands together. “Ah! Let me guess. The infamous Anthony?”

There wasn’t much point denying it. “Yeah. There’s some Ministry holiday programme for the Head Boy and Girl. So they’ve been invited to today’s seminar.”

“He’s Head Boy?” Celia raised her hands, still joined, to her chest. “This just gets better and better.”

“Anything else you want to know about him?” Zacharias asked, rolling his eyes.

Either Celia had no concept of sarcasm, or she was being a pain on purpose. “What house is he in? What’s his favourite colour? What colour are his _eyes_?”

Blue and bronze, navy, and hazel, not that Celia needed to know that. “Don’t you have work to do?”

Celia laughed. “It’s much more fun to tease you.”

“You can pick on me all you like once this seminar is over,” Zacharias said.

She saluted him, and he smiled back. Then it was back to business.

The morning wore on, and Zacharias skipped lunch. He thought he might pass out before he made it to the seminar—that would be ideal. But his constitution held firm, bolstered by years of skipping meals, and Zacharias could see with almost terrifying clarity as he pushed open the door to the seminar room. This was the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He could make out every face in the audience. Anthony, Hermione; even Ron was there. Mercifully, neither of the Auror department’s other new recruits were in attendance.

Zacharias breathed in calmly. He wasn’t sweating. With a start, he realised that he was _used_ to this. Whatever Celia said, this _was_ his career—young blood, a new perspective, fresh out of Hogwarts; a reputation for playing to win, for breaking the rules to win; every bit of spin he’d ever written or had been spun about him, every press release, every rumour. He had a boyfriend, somehow, and a flat in London. He had new friends, and he’d made tentative peace with old enemies. He’d even started telling the truth, but this wasn’t the time for that.

This was his job, and he did what he always did. Zacharias opened his mouth, and he lied for a living.

“Good afternoon—” with perfect rounded vowels and steady eye contact, “—my name is Zacharias Smith.”

Eye contact. Anthony had a hand over his mouth, seconds from laughter. Hermione looked shocked, Ron had one eyebrow an inch away from his hairline.

No-one called out from the crowd—apparently the Skeeter incident was old news—so Zacharias said wryly, “You may have heard of me. I work for the Department of Public Relations, liaising with the Daily Prophet. But my main role is to give talks like this, keeping you, the staff of the Ministry of Magic, informed of the changes happening here at your workplace.”

Lucretia was there too, Zacharias noticed, surreptitious in the back row with an approving look on her face. That was a good sign.

“Like many others in my generation, I didn’t grow up with the threat of war,” he continued. “But the experience of the war was very real in my final year at Hogwarts. I was present in the castle on the night of the Battle, and watched the world change. It’s easy to believe that this war was just between Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter, that there were no consequences for the rest of us. But fifty people died that night, some of my friends among them. And when there are changes at Hogwarts, and in the greater wizarding world, there have to be changes at the Ministry too.”

The whole point of this job, someone who’d been at the Battle evangelising change at the Ministry, had been to give the war a face. This was meant to connect with the average Ministry employee, spark their empathy, make them more amenable to job cuts and restructuring and renegotiated contracts. Sometimes, when he was up in front of all these average Ministry employees, Zacharias liked to imagine the looks on their faces if they found out he was significantly embellishing his capacity to inspire empathy. It would probably be something like the look on Anthony’s face now: _This is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard, but I’m still pretty amused by it, so I’ll give you a pass_. Or maybe closer to Hermione’s, an expression Zacharias couldn’t interpret like he could with Anthony’s, but it had more of the incredulity, less of the amusement.

Undaunted, he kept going.

With a few minutes left of his speech, he watched Lucretia slip out the back door, head down, looking the other way. That was fine. She didn’t usually come to his speeches anyway. Or, it should have been fine, but something about it threw Zacharias off-kilter.

“So don’t be worried if the way you work changes,” he said, skipping too fast to his conclusion. He’d forgotten the sentence about maintaining a supportive work environment. “It’s happening to everyone—not just in the Ministry, and not just in Magical Britain. The face of magic has changed, and this Ministry has the opportunity to be at the vanguard of that change. It’s all down to you.”

There was always a beat of silence before the polite applause. Hermione, Zacharias noticed, was clapping a little more hesitantly than everyone else. That was expected, at least. He let the applause die down, stood to one side, let the room empty a bit, before approaching Anthony.

“Say ’change’ one more time,” Anthony said. “I was keeping count, you know. Fifty-two. One change for every week of the year.”

“I can assure you, my press releases are much better than my speeches,” Zacharias said.

“Have you ever written a press release? I thought they left those for people with more experience. You fraud.” Anthony laughed. “But, really, that was something to watch. I’m impressed, and not only by the amount of jargon you managed to fit into, what, half an hour?”

“Longer than that,” Zacharias said. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Anthony looked like he was about to say something, but he didn’t get the chance. Hermione, a head shorter than Anthony, who in turn was almost a head shorter than Zacharias, had strode up to him, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

“Zacharias,” she said, “I would like a _word_ with you.”

“You’re in luck,” Zacharias said. “Here I am.”

“This is not the time for jokes!” Hermione said. “I would like you to explain a few things to me.” She began to count on her fingers. “One: why exactly did your accent change when you started delivering your speech? Two: I am quite certain you did _not_ fight in the Battle of Hogwarts. Three: did you say you were a _Prefect_? Did I hear that correctly?”

When Zacharias recovered from her barrage, he realised there were still people in the room. “Could you keep your voice down?”

“I don’t see why that’s—”

Ron nudged her in the arm, and Hermione pursed her lips.

“If I must,” she said. And then, softer, “You lied to get this job, didn’t you?”

“No,” Zacharias said, even more quietly, “I told the truth. And I got the job anyway.”

Hermione frowned. “Well. You are rather good at it.”

Zacharias smiled, genuinely. “I know.”

Shaking her head, Hermione turned to Ron. “Well, I’ve become quite disenfranchised enough for one day. Let’s see if Harry and Neville are free yet.”

The way Ron looked at her was wistful, but full of admiration, like stargazing. Zacharias’ first thought was that relationships were just plain embarrassing. Then he checked himself Did Anthony look at him like that? Did he look at Anthony like that? _Could_ he?

“We should head back too,” Anthony said. “I mean, you can leave early today, right?”

“Probably,” Zacharias said. “No-one notices I’m around at the best of times.”

“So quiet,” Anthony said. “So tame.”

With some effort, Zacharias tried to give him a look. The nice sort of look. The one filled with admiration.

Anthony furrowed his eyebrows. His glasses slipped down his nose a little. “Are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright,” Zacharias said. “What, you mean because of what Hermione said?”

“No,” Anthony said. “I don’t know. You were pulling a weird face.”

“Oh.” Zacharias rolled his shoulders back. He was stiff from hunching over his desk, when he needn’t have gone to the trouble—this seminar had been no different from any other. He hadn’t lost his composure just because there were people he knew in the audience. Everything had gone to plan.

“Well, don’t worry about it,” Anthony said. Now the room really had emptied, so he put a hand on Zacharias’ arm. “You were good. You _are_ good. I think I might have underestimated you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Zacharias said. “Makes me feel impressive.”

“You know I’m impressed by you whatever you do, right?” Anthony said. “You could be standing there casually and I’d think, ‘wow, Zach sure is something, isn’t he?’”

Zacharias brought his hands up to cover his eyes. “I’m going to pretend you never said that.”

“You have to let me be romantic,” Anthony said. “You’re going to have to get used to it.”

“If you insist.” Zacharias spread his fingers enough that he could peer through them. “So you won’t mind if I take you up to Level One and show you off to all my colleagues?”

He could see just enough to catch Anthony turn his head away, eyes screwing shut. “Alright,” he said. “But then we’re heading straight back home, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Zacharias agreed. “We can both take the afternoon off.”

Things were looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, I'm glad all that awkwardness is over, haha. It's not like things could get any worse than this, right?


	20. Chapter 20

When Zacharias woke up, the cold hit him—or maybe he’d woken because he was cold. There were sheets rumpled up next to him, leaving his shoulder exposed, and a space where Anthony should have been. It was early. It was a Saturday morning. Saturday mornings were, historically, for sleeping in.

Something felt off. Zacharias forced himself to get up, shrouding himself in Anthony’s bathrobe and shuffling to the kitchen. He could smell tea. But Anthony didn’t drink tea.

Everything made a little more sense when he found Lucretia sitting at his dining table, one hand loosely wrapped around a mug. He blinked once. Twice. No, nothing made any sense. He opened his mouth. He closed it again.

“I like your partner,” Lucretia said. “He makes a good cup of tea.”

Alright, one thing at a time: Zacharias was going to skip over the word “partner” _—_ that made it seem so _serious_ , although Zacharias supposed it sort of was serious—and he was going to focus on what the hell his boss was doing in his kitchen.

“Sorry,” Anthony said. He was forcing a smile. What was _that_ about?

“You don’t need to apologise,” Lucretia told him. “It was perhaps a bit ill-advised of me to Apparate into your kitchen at six-thirty in the morning.”

Zacharias rubbed at the corner of his eye. “Fuck, it’s six?”

“Seven now,” Anthony said. He turned back to Lucretia. “Don’t worry about it. I woke up, after all.”

“This is true,” Lucretia said. “Either way, I hate being the bearer of bad news.”

“No you don’t,” Zacharias said. “Bad news is your job.”

Lucretia dipped her head. “This is also true. But this is a bit of a different situation.”

“Wait.” Zacharias rubbed his other eye. Now he could see the scene a bit clearer. “Bad news?”

Anthony gestured for Zacharias to take a seat, and at the same time Lucretia slid a copy of the Daily Prophet across the table. Zacharias took the seat, and the newspaper.

It was a Skeeter article. The headline made his stomach sink. “MINISTRY PR LIES EXPOSED!” Yes, this was bad news. This was the worst sort of news. Zacharias read on.

“’The Ministry’s campaign of lies has been exposed by a leak,’” he read aloud. “’Zacharias Smith, the young man who has been giving seminars on the Ministry’s changing plans for its future in postwar Magical Britain, has been exposed as a—’ oh, fuck, ’—as a fraud.’”

It went on. Zacharias felt like his throat was closing in on itself; he couldn’t read the rest aloud.

 

_Our source has told us that while Smith speaks with authority about the Battle of Hogwarts, he in fact spent that fateful night cowering in the Hog’s Head pub in Hogsmeade with the underage students—who, unlike Smith, were not allowed to fight. It appears that even his accent is fake: Smith’s smooth London tones are incongruous with his birthplace of Glasgow. Smith has been painting himself as a war hero and a Prefect—another lie—who is the poster boy for the Ministry’s plans for post-war change. But word within the Ministry is that Smith is a maverick and a bully, exercising no caution in his job for the Department of Public Relations and acting without authorisation. It appears he is a true protege of the Ministry’s Chief of Staff, Lucretia Horner, whose underhanded dealings we reported on the 5th of November._

 

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Lucretia said. She sounded quite calm.

Zacharias still couldn’t speak. He cleared his throat.

Lucretia took a sip of her tea. “Take your time. Anthony, make him a cup, would you?”

She put herself in charge wherever she went. It was a moment before Anthony reacted—he’d been staring into the distance, eyes unfocused without his glasses on—and almost knocked his chair over in his haste to get to the kettle.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” Lucretia said, “and it’s beyond cruel for Skeeter to report this way about a child, but—”

“I’m not a child,” Zacharias said, finding his voice. “I… I’m a junior employee at the Ministry of Magic, working for the Department of Public Relations and liaising with the Daily Prophet.” He said it aloud to remind himself, and because it might be the last time he could. “Skeeter can say whatever the fuck she wants about me.”

Lucretia shook her head. “I’m still not pleased. But it’s typical Skeeter, taking the opportunity to implicate me too.”

“I don’t think we can talk our way out of this one,” Zacharias said.

It was beginning to sink in. Lucretia had taught him not to ask stupid questions, so he didn’t ask how Skeeter had found out. Any children’s storybook will tell you that liars are always found out. When Zacharias was growing up, he had an illustrated version of the Boy who Cried Wolf. He left it in Glasgow when they moved. When what’s-her-name from Ravenclaw had told Umbridge about Dumbledore’s Army, she had her lie branded across her face. Zacharias didn’t think that was fair—but then, the rest of the world didn’t think that lying was fair.

Anyway, he had a suspicion that someone with connections must have overheard Hermione confronting him after his seminar. That had been just yesterday. Skeeter probably couldn’t wait to publish this story. She’d won their war, conclusively. There was no recovering from this blow.

But Lucretia surprised him. As the kettle whistled, she said, “Come on now, where’s the Zacharias Smith that I know? My—what was it, ‘maverick protege?’”

“You want me to lie my way out of this?” Zacharias asked. “How would I—it’s too messy. I can’t.”

“No, you’ll lose your job,” Lucretia said, “that much is for certain. Shacklebolt has requested a meeting at your earliest convenience—that’s why I’m here, by the way—and if you’re lucky, he’ll let you down gently.”

“So?” Zacharias was beginning to wake up. Anthony slid a cup of orange pekoe across the table—the warmth between his hands brought him to life a little.

“You still have cards left to play,” Lucretia said. “You’re young. You can tell him your adult superiors encouraged you to embellish the truth. That’s all it is, by the way—you’re still the survivor of a fascist regime running a school. That counts for something. Play that up a little.”

“The sympathy card,” Zacharias said. “So I’m fired, but there are no more articles, is that it?”

“They don’t let us fire people anymore,” Lucretia said, almost sadly. “We just ask them kindly to step down from their positions. Or make them redundant. You’ll be made redundant, most likely—after this, the Ministry’s not going to sanction any more of Linwood’s little PR experiments.”

“Usually that would entail some sort of payout,” Anthony said.

Lucretia looked at him like she’d forgotten he was there. “Wizards don’t do unionism quite like Muggles. He’ll take what he gets.”

“I’ll be lucky if I get out with my good name intact,” Zacharias said, “never mind any extra money.”

“I’ll reform the unions,” Anthony said. He sounded a little bit like Hermione. “As soon as I graduate and get a job, I’ll—”

“The Ministry really does need more people like you, but now is not quite the time for that,” Lucretia said. “Zacharias, are you ready? We’ll Apparate straight to the Ministry.”

Zacharias looked down at the bathrobe. “Er, I might get dressed first.”

He finished his tea and put on his best robes. Lucretia was very patient. She had decided to be interested in Anthony again, and instigated a conversation about Muggle politics that Zacharias only half-understood.

Apparating was getting easier. They left Anthony at the kitchen table and landed in the Atrium a moment later. Zacharias was barely dizzy as he followed Lucretia through to Level One. Although it was a Saturday, there were a fair few people at the Ministry. Invariably, they gave Zacharias _looks_ as he passed. Nothing new, but the tone was more menacing.

Lucretia dropped him off outside Kinglsey Shacklebolt’s office. “I’m giving a statement to some journalists in two hours. Do try to be done by then.”

Zacharias was reminded of being sent to the principal’s office, the last time it happened in Glasgow. “We can’t do anything about Zacharias,” he’d once heard the principal tell his father. “He’s always getting into fights.”

“He’s always getting fought,” his father had said. “There is a difference.”

But that last time… the other boy was covered in cuts and scrapes, bleeding and bruised, and Zacharias was confused. He hadn’t remembered doing anything except giving the boy a shove. His father told him to wait outside the office. “I’ll take care of it.” That—with the benefit of hindsight—had been a memory charm. There would be no memory charms for this. Zacharias would have to enchant an entire country.

He knocked, and the door opened on its own.

“Zacharias Smith,” said the Minister, “you’re becoming a bit of a celebrity, aren’t you?”

To Zacharias’ surprise, they weren’t alone. In a great stone fireplace, offset against the panelled wooden walls, was the image of Professor McGonagall. He’d always found Floo a little unsettling—like magical portraits. It wasn’t _really_ her. Still, there she was, looking down her nose at him like she would from the front of a classroom.

“I’d really rather I wasn’t,” he said.

Shacklebolt gestured to a chair across from his desk. “Take a seat. Let’s talk through what’s going to happen.”

Nothing about what had already happened—what was _going_ to happen. This was it, Zacharias realised. He was about to be fired. Asked kindly to leave.

“Obviously in the wake of the news in the Prophet, it’s no longer possible for you to continue giving your seminars. Or liaising with the Prophet, for that matter,” Shacklebolt said. “I suspect you already knew that.”

Zacharias shrugged. “I had guessed.”

“I want to assure you that you’re not going to be cast aside,” Shacklebolt continued. “By all accounts, you’ve done well in the position, and your help has been invaluable during the election.”

“But?”

Shacklebolt looked grim, but he spoke with an almost paternal affection—not that Zacharias was entirely sure what that meant. “We can’t keep you in the job. But you’re young. You should be back at Hogwarts, finishing your education with the rest of your peers.”

“I left,” Zacharias said. His eyes flickered between portraits on the wall, the windows.

“If I may interrupt,” Professor McGonagall said. “Smith, I’ve been speaking to the Minister this morning. As you’ve only missed a few months of schooling, and your grades have always been above average, we’re willing to accept you back for the final term. You can sit your N.E.W.T.s with everyone else, and if your grades are still good, you may graduate from Hogwarts.”

“I don’t understand,” Zacharias said. “I left.”

“You did leave,” she said. “And now we’re inviting you back.”

“I would strongly urge you to accept this offer,” Shacklebolt said. “You were lucky to get such an easy entry into your first job. That luck, I’m afraid, has run out. To make anything of yourself, you’ll need a diploma from Hogwarts.”

Another term back at Hogwarts—with Anthony, with Tracey, with everyone he cared about and everyone who hated him. Maybe even with Quidditch.

Zacharias felt something tighten in his chest—he wasn’t going to cry, he was _not_ going to cry. He hadn’t cried when he saw the Daily Prophet that morning. He wasn’t going to cry now. He rubbed at his eyes. He was _not_ crying.

“I’ll take it,” he said. Lucretia had been right—the situation wasn’t entirely irredeemable. He had his youth on his side. He hadn’t even needed to play it up; they’d done all the work for him.

Professor McGonagall’s image in the fire smiled warmly. “I will look forward to seeing you soon, then. No doubt your friends will be able to tell you when the Hogwarts Express leaves.”

All of Zacharias’ school things were in Ayr, but it didn’t matter—he’d borrow parchment and quills until everyone was sick of him. He was going back. After all this, all he’d done, he had wound up right where he started.

McGonagall faded from the fireplace, and Shacklebolt looked pleased. “That was painless, wasn’t it? Anything else you want to say before Lucretia gives her press conference? No doubt she’ll want you to say a few words.”

Lucretia. Zacharias had saved his own arse, even though he would probably never be allowed back into the Ministry, but Lucretia… what would happen to her? This press conference seemed too sudden, too staged. Zacharias began to panic. What if this was it for her too? What if she was stepping down?

“There’s one more thing,” Zacharias said, remembering what Lucretia had told him back in Anthony’s kitchen.

“Go on.” Shacklebolt leant forward.

“I want to apologise,” Zacharias said. He had to say this right, or he wouldn’t get away with it. He had to go out like he came in—embellishing the truth. “I let myself be taken in by all of Linwood’s suggestions.”

Shacklebolt’s expression changed, his eyebrows slowly rising until his face had something quizzical about it. “Linwood?”

Zacharias nodded. “It was his idea that I change my accent, embellish all those details about myself. I thought it would make me more acceptable. Now I know that was a stupid way to think—but Linwood, he had all these ideas about what the Ministry’s poster boy for change should be.” He paused, swallowing. This was all or nothing. “It was Lucretia who encouraged me to think for myself, which was something I always got to do in my job liaising with the Prophet.”

“No doubt you’ll miss it,” Shacklebolt said, frowning.

“I will,” Zacharias said. _That_ wasn’t a lie. “I’ll miss it very much.”

He left the imposing room in a daze, stumbling through the familiar corridors until he found his office. Everyone was there, paused like a Muggle photograph, like they’d been waiting. Penelope was there, and Percy with her, leaning against Zacharias’ desk—his _former_ desk.

“Well?” Celia prompted, jumping to her feet. She took Zacharias by the arm. “What happened?”

“I…” Zacharias began. Where _did_ he begin? “The bad news is I lost the job. The liaison job, too.”

“Oh, Zach,” Penelope said, coming forward and latching onto his other arm. “I’m so sorry. This is so unfair, I’m so sorry.”

“The good news,” Zacharias said, “is that they’re letting me finish my education. I’m going back to Hogwarts.”

He looked towards his desk, meeting Percy’s eye. Percy was unreadable, but he nodded, just once.

“And then I’m going to come back here,” Zacharias said. Whatever it took. “So try not to miss me too m—”

Letting out a shout, Penelope flung her arms around him. She was tall enough that it wasn’t uncomfortable, so Zacharias hugged her back. He wasn’t strong enough to lift her off her feet, but he had enough balance to keep them from toppling over entirely.

“Don’t you _ever_ ,” Penelope said, “let anyone tell you you’re not good enough for this job. You come right back here, Zacharias Smith. Write your resume while you’re waiting for your N.E.W.T. results. You come _right back_ , you hear me?”

“Alright, alright,” Zacharias said, laughing a bit. “I’ll do my best.”

“Or you’ll lie your way back into the job,” Celia joked, jabbing him in the side.

“Or that,” he agreed.

“This is touching,” came Lucretia’s voice from the door, “but do I need to remind you all that you have jobs to do?”

Penelope pulled back from Zacharias. “Lucretia, are you—are you alright?”

“Me?” Lucretia shrugged. “I’m fine. Worse things have happened at sea. And now I have to talk to your people, Penelope. I’d quite like it if Zacharias accompanied me.”

“Don’t resign,” Zacharias blurted. He thought he might have been blushing. Celia was definitely smirking at him. “I mean. You don’t need to do anything drastic. I told Shacklebolt that everything I did was all Linwood’s idea. I told him it was you who encouraged me to think for myself by giving me the job in liaison.”

There was an unfamiliar expression on Lucretia’s face, a grin so wide that Zacharias thought she might need some sort of charm to change her appearance back. And equally strange, she clapped him on the upper arm. “You’ve done well. Let’s go out there and get someone else blamed for all of this nonsense.”

From the back of the office, there was a loud sigh. “Thank Merlin,” Thaddeus said. “I’m so sick of working for Linwood.”

“Maybe they’ll make me the head of the department,” Maureen said. “It would be about time, too. I was working here before Timothy Linwood was even born!”

“He could make a small fortune writing his memoirs,” Celia said, “that’s my bet. The next Gilderoy Lockhart.”

“Don’t joke about that sort of thing,” Thaddeus said, shuddering.

Zacharias left them to their conversation. He would be back—or at the very least he would see Celia before he left for Hogwarts, and Penelope too. Maybe he’d introduce them to Tracey—that could only end well.

As he followed Lucretia into a lift to the Atrium, Zacharias felt buoyant. Lucky, too, and a little unethical on top of that. Skeeter may have won, but he was far from losing.

“This is a right mess,” Lucretia said, “but don’t go thinking that I’ll ever regret hiring you.”

“I would never,” Zacharias said. “My opinion of myself is far too high.”

Lucretia’s expression was perfectly serious when she said, “Keep that up and you’ll make Chief of Staff one day.”

“Second in command,” Zacharias mused. Not quite yet, but one day he’d like the sound of that. And wouldn’t Rita Skeeter have a field day?

Stepping out into the Atrium, into the blinding glare of camera flashbulbs and onto the waves of whispers, Zacharias held his head high. He had not lost. There was no storybook ending. There was no comeuppance for the villain of the tale. The liar, the cheat, the coward, had _won_.

And it wasn’t really an ending, either—it was back to the beginning, back to the Hogwarts Express, non-regulation robes waiting in his suitcase, ready to be transfigured. It was the feeling of parting the crowd at King’s Cross Station, pushing through the wall to Platform 9¾—Anthony at his side, Tracey waving from up ahead, the buzz of conversation and the whistle of steam.

Before Zacharias could make his way to Tracey, though, the Hufflepuffs found him.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” Wayne called. “I’d heard you’d be crawling back, but I guess you have to see it to believe it.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors,” Zacharias said. He had missed Wayne, a little bit.

Wayne rolled his eyes. “Don’t think you’re suddenly better than me because you’ve had a job in the big city.”

“I’ve always been better than you,” Zacharias said. “Don’t take it personally.”

Ernie, always the peacekeeper, took both of them by the arm. “Let’s not start this term with a fight, lads.”

“That’s right,” Zacharias said. “Don’t mess with me. I have contacts at the Ministry.”

“So do I,” Susan said. “And you haven’t beaten me in a fight yet.”

Zacharias shook off Ernie’s hold. “I don’t think we’ve ever fought.”

“Well let’s not wait to find out!” Ernie said hastily.

This easy banter _was_ something Zacharias had missed. He had made new friends, and he didn’t regret his time at the Ministry one bit, but these people, who he’d known for over seven years—there was no replacement for that. Anthony had gone off to talk to Hermione and Su. Zacharias met his eye briefly, and they exchanged the kind of smile that had come to mean something like, _don’t worry, I’ll be here_.

Justin arrived not long after, and he tackled Zacharias with such force that they both fell on top of Wayne, who complained loudly, but not quite loudly enough for either of them to apologise.

“So the rumours were true!” Justin exclaimed. “The Head Boyfriend is back!”

“Head Boyfriend,” Zacharias repeated, laughing despite how absolutely unfunny and deeply embarrassing it was. “How long have you been waiting to use that one?”

“All winter,” Justin said. “I’m glad you appreciate it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Zacharias said. He did appreciate that everyone seemed to have been thinking about him, though, and not as the prodigal son, the boy who’d left town for glory; they were thinking of him as Zacharias, their friend, and occasional antagonist. There was something heartening about that.

Justin gave him a thin smile. “You were thinking it.”

“Oh,” Ernie said, “I see they reported your Prefect deception in the Prophet. That’s about the only good to come of this sorry affair, you know. It’s quite out of line to not only pretend to be a Prefect, but to _continue_ after I told you off for it.”

“Yes, I’ve definitely learnt from my mistakes,” Zacharias said. “I’ll never pretend to be a Prefect again. I swear it.”

“I will hold you to that,” Ernie said. He didn’t seem to see the humour of the situation. At least Susan was snickering. Wayne was still complaining that Justin and Zacharias had bruised him.

Just then, Tracey came up to them, tugging at Zacharias’ wrist. Things were easier between them now—after he’d lost his job, they had a lot more time to spend together. And they were best friends, all the stronger for the fissures they’d had to mend.

“Ditch these losers,” she said. “We’ve got a train to catch.”

Before she could go anywhere, Zacharias caught her by the arm. “Oh no you don’t. Last time we did this, you made me sit with your friends. Now I’m subjecting you to mine.”

“Well if it isn’t Tracey Davis!” Justin said. “I don’t think we’ve exchanged words since the beginning of the school year. And before that, I think it was when you called me a baby and pushed me into a planter full of honking daffodils in third year. Do you remember that?”

“Vividly,” Tracey said, cringing a little. “Not one of my proudest moments.”

“No,” Justin agreed, shaking his head. “But I think we’ve all grown since then.”

“Nah,” Zacharias said, “Tracey’s just as short as she was.” In fact, Justin was a little taller than her.

He was rewarded with a shove for his efforts. “I haven’t missed you,” she said. “Not even a little bit. You sure they won’t give you your job back?”

“I don’t want it back,” Zacharias said. “I’m never giving another fucking seminar in my life.”

“You might have to,” Susan said. “Everyone wants to know about you. I’ve had to answer the most annoying questions about you from younger students. I think we all have, those of us who’ve had our brush with fame. You’re a bit of a celebrity around here.”

“The next Harry Potter,” Wayne joked.

Zacharias was about to respond to that allegation, maybe fling himself onto the tracks while he was at it, but the stationmaster’s whistle sounded. The crowd moved as one onto the train. There was something so earnest and familiar about the student body of Hogwarts moving as one, not unlike the Ministry Atrium on a Monday morning. Given time, Zacharias knew he would get used to it again.

“But seriously,” Tracey said, under her breath as they made for a compartment, “it’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” Zacharias said. That wasn’t a lie. And this time, he was going to do things properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left after this, an epilogue of sorts. Thanks as always to my beta reader Taylor for being the absolute best. Please leave a comment!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the epilogue! Nineteen years l—kidding, it's only like six months later. Enjoy!

_BIG CHANGES IN MINISTRY PUBLIC RELATIONS_

_January 8th, 1999 | Penelope Clearwater, political correspondent_

_Today saw the resignation of one of the Ministry’s most senior members of staff, Timothy Linwood, head of the Department of Public Relations. After revelations that he had engineered the persona behind Zacharias Smith, a representative of the Battle of Hogwarts generation who was employed to give seminars in the wake of the war, Linwood tendered his resignation to the Minister for Magic, Kinglsey Shacklebolt. Speaking to the Prophet, Smith told us that he was taken in by Linwood’s persuasive language, a trick he would have learnt in his long tenure within the department. “He was very controlling,” Smith said. “I was never allowed to take the seminars in my own direction. In many ways, I’m glad I’m not in the job anymore.”_

_When reached for comment, Linwood did not respond. Applications have now opened for a new head of Public Relations, and inside sources have reported that Adrian Fawley, from the Department of Human Resources (and grandson of former Minister Hector Fawley) is tipped for the job. Others suggest that Shacklebolt’s chief rival in last year’s ministerial campaign, Johanna Mills, would be a better candidate. She is highly regarded in her current position as head of the Muggle Liaison Office. Whoever is appointed, it’s certain that the Ministry will undergo many of the changes that Smith reported in his seminars—and, ironically, those changes will be easier without Linwood around._

 

It was sprinkling rain when Zacharias and Anthony got off the bus, lugging their suitcases down the slippery pavements of Ayr. A grey evening welcomed Zacharias home for the last time in a long time. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to think of as home anymore—Glasgow, Ayr, Hogwarts, London—but for now, this was close enough.

He almost knocked on his own front door. His hand was an inch from the panelled wood before the feeling of absurdity set in. He pulled back, fishing in his coat pocket for his keys.

“This is surprisingly suburban,” Anthony said from behind him.

“What did you expect?” Zacharias asked, turning the key. “Some sort of mansion?”

“More like a windswept shack on the beach,” Anthony said.

Zacharias leant into a laugh. He didn’t associate Ayr with laughter, or being around friends and letting himself relax. But what would the next two weeks be like without that?

Leading the way inside, he propped his suitcase against a wall and left Anthony to close the front door. The sitting room buzzed with the BBC news and the sound of turning broadsheet pages, the television ignored.

“Father.”

Dr. Smith looked up. “Zacharias. So nice of you to drop by.”

Zacharias breathed in through his mouth, out through his nose. He would _not_ let his father rile him up. “If you’d bothered to read my letter properly,” he said evenly, “you’d know I’m staying for two weeks before I move to London.”

Dr. Smith only hummed. “I left home at eighteen too.”

“I’m nineteen,” Zacharias said.

“So you are,” Dr. Smith said. “And are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Behind Zacharias, Anthony was standing in the doorway, just out of the light. Zacharias wanted to say that he could introduce himself, but Anthony was looking at him expectantly. He sighed. “Anthony, my father, Hector Smith. Father, Anthony, my—”

His voice caught in his throat.

“—my boyfriend.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” Anthony said, all earnest and genuine. He was so offensively good with people. “I’ve heard so much.”

“Funny how these things work,” Dr. Smith said. “I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.” He paused, one finger to his lips. “Oh, I think Zacharias has mentioned you once or twice. I presume you’re another one of his Hufflepuff crowd?”

“No, actually,” Anthony said. “Ravenclaw.”

Zacharias watched, mouth hanging open, as Dr. Smith’s expression morphed from indifference into interest. He folded down a corner of his newspaper, a major shift for a man who contained himself so well; Zacharias doubted if Anthony would notice it at all.

“I’m surprised Zacharias would make a friend in Ravenclaw,” Dr. Smith remarked, “let alone a—well, he’s always been so defensive of his house to me, but that might be because he feels obliged to disagree with me.”

“You mustn’t blame him for being contrary,” Anthony said. “It’s only natural that a Hufflepuff might feel, ah, jealous. Wearing yellow all the time can’t be good for one’s state of mind.”

“It’s like I’m not even in the room,” Zacharias said.

Anthony laughed, stepping closer to knock his shoulder against Zacharias’. “You know I’m joking.”

Zacharias did know, but such a casual display of affection in front of his father left him frozen still.

“And what will you have for dinner, Anthony?” Dr. Smith asked.

“Oh,” Zacharias said, brought back to his senses, “I’m a vegetarian now. I didn’t tell you.”

Dr. Smith pulled a face. “That’s well and good. I’m sure we will find something for your… needs. But I asked Anthony.”

Anthony had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I’m kosher,” he said. “As long as there’s no pork, and no meat and dairy in the same meal, I’m fine.”

“That can be arranged,” Dr. Smith said.

Zacharias very much doubted that, but he would trust his father to be a bit more discerning than a meat feast with extra cheese.

“We’ll put our things down,” he said, eager for an escape, “and see you in a bit.”

Upstairs, Anthony didn’t bother to hide his curiosity. His eyes crossed the hallways and trailed down the stripes in the fading wallpaper. He stopped at the door to Zacharias’ room. “It seems so…”

“You can say it,” Zacharias said.

“Like it hasn’t been lived in.” Anthony shrugged. “Not saying that’s a bad thing.”

“It’s fine,” Zacharias said. “My father commutes to Glasgow every day. I’m not here most of the year. This house is more of a stopover than anything else.”

“So where’s the guest room?” Anthony asked.

Zacharias raised his eyebrows. “We don’t have one. You can stay in mine. If that’s alright.”

Anthony smiled. “More than.”

“I don’t have a fancy double-bed like you do.”

“What a pity,” Anthony said. “I _hate_ being so close to you.”

Nudging his elbow against the door to swing it open, Zacharias gestured to his bedroom like a grand ballroom. All too suddenly he remembered the Yule Ball—the vast Great Hall crowded with dancing and shouting students, and Zacharias and Anthony off to one side watching it all. His mind caught on the image of them standing close together, his elbow knocking against Anthony as he reached across him, pointing towards something amusing at the other side of the Hall. Anthony had grabbed his wrist, telling him it was rude to point, but he was laughing.

If Zacharias thought too hard about it, it kind of _had_ been a date.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think,” Anthony said, “that we should close the door behind us.”

They made it downstairs eventually, Zacharias going ahead while Anthony stopped by the bathroom. Incredibly, there was steam coming from the kitchen. For a moment Zacharias thought that the house was on fire. In the moment after, he worried that his instinct wasn’t to panic or take out his wand, but to shrug and walk away. But it wasn’t fire, just steam, and inside the kitchen there was his father, standing over a pot of boiling water and examining an ancient slotted spoon like it held the secrets of quantum mechanics.

“You’re cooking,” Zacharias said. He’d meant it as a detached statement of fact, but there was a questioning inflection to his tone that he couldn’t contain.

“I am cooking,” Hector Smith said, looking from the spoon to the pot to his son and back to the spoon.

Zacharias blinked. “Pasta?” he guessed.

Dr. Smith nodded with something like pride, picking up a jar of tomato sauce. “And there’s cheese in the fridge. I don’t think we have a grater, though, so I bought some of that cheese that comes in a bag. You know the kind.”

“I do,” Zacharias said. He had lived off little else in London.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m going to such an effort,” Dr. Smith said.

“This is really the least I’d expect of a functioning human being,” Zacharias said. “Should I be impressed that you’re reaching the bare minimum?”

But he _was_ impressed. His father, who lived on take-out and home deliveries and credit card restaurant dinners, was making an effort. Zacharias wasn’t the only one who had changed.

Before Dr. Smith could respond, Anthony came into the kitchen. “Is that pasta? I haven’t had pasta since I lived with my parents.”

“Not much of a cook?” Dr. Smith asked.

Zacharias and Anthony shared a look. “You could say that,” Anthony said.

“No doubt you lived in squalor on your own,” Dr. Smith said, in the sort of casual tone you’d use to ask about the weather. “I was much the same when I first moved away from home.”

Dr. Smith never talked about leaving home, becoming a Muggle. Zacharias knew the basic story, but he’d always suspected there was more to it than the outline he’d been given. And since Dr. Smith seemed more comfortable talking to a Ravenclaw he’d just met than his own son, Zacharias saw his opportunity.

Anthony must have too, speaking before Zacharias could: “How old were you when you moved out?”

“Eighteen,” Dr. Smith said. “I had just graduated from Hogwarts, for all the good it did me.”

“Professor Sprout still gushes about how good you were at Herbology,” Zacharias said. “And everything else.”

“Yes, I suppose I did come at the top of all my classes.” Dr. Smith sounded almost contemplative, like he’d forgotten.

“Forgive me if this is out of line,” Anthony said, tentative, “but Zacharias told me he was raised as a Muggle, that he didn’t know about magic until he was eight. Do you mind if I ask why you chose to do that?”

For a moment, Dr. Smith was quiet. The brick walls hummed as a car drove past outside, and the kitchen grew unbearably warm with the boiling water, the haze of the steam. At last, he spoke: “I was dissatisfied with magic.”

“Me too, constantly,” Zacharias said, “but I’m still using my wand on the regular.”

“I am sorry for passing the burden down to you,” Dr. Smith said. The apology was probably just for show, but Zacharias had been trying to get him talking, and that, at least, had worked. “I read every book in the Hogwarts library, you know. Every single one. I don’t suppose either of you can claim that. I read them all and I still didn’t know how magic worked. I was born into magic, but I never understood how it could be real. There are no formulae, no theorems, for why we can exist this way. Magicians aren’t scientists. You’re all far too complacent for that.”

“There’s the Department of Mysteries,” Anthony said.

“And does anything they study ever see the light of day?” Dr. Smith actually _sighed_ , waving his slotted spoon through a cloud of steam. “It may be enough for some people, but it never was for me. I’m much happier being a proper academic. Everything we know, we write down and make public.”

Anthony looked a little shocked. “That’s… that’s certainly one way of looking at it.”

“You didn’t need to leave home to become a Muggle scientist, though,” Zacharias said. He was a little shocked too, for other reasons. If his father hadn’t left magic behind, Zacharias could have grown up with it. He could have come to Hogwarts feeling like he already belonged there.

“You probably didn’t need to leave Hogwarts to work for the government,” Dr. Smith said, “and yet, here we are.”

“I would be fascinated to hear more about Muggle academia,” Anthony said quickly, defusing the bomb. “And about your research, if you’ve got time to tell me.”

“Of course,” Dr. Smith said. “How much do you know about quantum mechanics?”

Dinner was very long that night.

Afterwards, Zacharias was unaccountably tired. He had eaten a lot, and it had been a long day. He always hated coming home from Hogwarts. Not because he missed school, and not because he was always dead bored at home. It was all those hours on trains, nothing to do but wander the same corridors and buy the same snacks. At least he’d never have to do it again.

“I think I should apologise for leaving you out of the conversation all evening,” Anthony said as they made their way upstairs. “But I have learnt an awful lot.”

“I don’t mind,” Zacharias said. “It’s the most I’ve heard him talk in ten years.”

Anthony smiled wearily. “I don’t agree with him. There’s still so much to learn about magic, so much we can do with it.”

“So you’re going to be that scientist?” Zacharias joked.

“We’ll see.”

From where they were standing, the future looked uncertain. Zacharias could sustain himself on his father’s money and his mother’s pity lunches for a while, but he’d need a job to really live comfortably. And he didn’t know where to work, if not at the Ministry.

Anthony had better prospects. He’d already received offers from at least four people in the Ministry: three internships and one entry-level job in HR that Zacharias had forced him to relegate to the bottom of the pile. And there was an open offer of internship at the Wizard Intelligence Taskforce for anyone with straight O N.E.W.T.s—Anthony had been given notice that this would likely include him, but insisted that if he _did_ get straight Os, it would only be because he hadn’t taken any of the seriously practical subjects.

Their N.E.W.T. results arrived that week. They had been out for lunch, walking back to the bus stop, when two owls swooped towards them. Anthony stopped in his tracks when he saw his scores and burst into tears in front of a Boots—one of the women working there came out to offer him tissues, and Zacharias hurriedly told her “no, thank you,” just in case she came too close and they accidentally violated the International Statute of Secrecy.

“You idiot,” he said, once they were far enough from the crowded street, “I told you.”

“I thought for _sure_ I’d botched the Transfiguration practical,” Anthony said, sniffing.

Zacharias wrenched Anthony’s arm from his face so he wouldn’t blow his nose on his results. “An Anthony Goldstein botched transfiguration is anyone else’s dream.”

Anthony stepped on his toes. “And how did _you_ do?”

“Well,” Zacharias said honestly. “I even passed Herbology.”

“I knew you would,” Anthony said. “Any Os?”

Zacharias looked away. “Er. Arithmancy.” He paused. “And History, and Muggle Studies.”

“You arse!” Anthony said, shoving Zacharias in the chest. “What’s that, three Os, three Es, and an A?”

“Two Es and two As,” Zacharias corrected. “I botched the Transfiguration practical.”

But they were still good marks. They were good enough for a job in the Ministry. Maybe that entry level post in HR would be opened up to the public once Anthony accepted his WIT internship. Which Zacharias knew he would. Apart from anything else, he quite fancied the idea of dating a spy.

They spent the rest of their time in Ayr alternating between watching loads of bad daytime telly and getting everything in order for London. Anthony was a prolific list-maker, itemising everything from cleaning duties to how they’d allocate their shared wardrobe space. He made lists about what they’d need in the kitchen, inspired by helping Dr. Smith in the kitchen and talking about physics. While that went on, Zacharias watched the news—now, he knew what “new Labour” meant.

The last part—and the worst part—was packing. Zacharias had a lot of things he habitually left at the back of his bedroom cupboard: clothes he wore exclusively on holiday, clothes that hadn’t fit him for at least five years, clothes he’d been sent as a birthday present from his mother and never worn once. Anthony was helping him sort through what to keep and what to throw out—and taking a few of the smaller things for himself.

“No point letting it go to waste,” he would say, looking in the mirror and holding something against himself for appraisal. The very thought of Anthony wearing his clothes made Zacharias feel like he might burst into flames, but he’d have to learn to manage. There was that afternoon last semester when he’d shown up to Quidditch in a Ravenclaw tie. That was fine, since he was only going to get changed anyway, but Anthony had a Prefect’s meeting, and Professor McGonagall had asked him in front of everyone, “Since when has the Head Boy been in Hufflepuff?”

“What’s this?” Anthony was right at the back of the cupboard, sorting through dusty cardboard boxes.

“What does it look like?” Zacharias asked. “If it’s that far back, it’s probably for throwing out.”

“I think it’s a violin case,” Anthony said.

Zacharias put down the sweater he was folding and joined Anthony on the floor. The box lay between them, with Zacharias’ old viola case sticking out the top. “Well I never,” he said. “It’s been eight years since I touched this.”

“I didn’t know you played the violin,” Anthony said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Viola,” Zacharias said.

“You should bring it to London,” Anthony said. “Pick it up again.”

Celia had told him something like that too. “I don’t know,” Zacharias said. “I’ve probably forgotten everything.”

“But it’s pretty attractive,” Anthony said, “this mental image I’ve got of you all kitted out like you’re in an orchestra, brandishing your bow…”

Anthony was so much more persuasive than Celia had been. Zacharias leant across the cardboard box and kissed him. It was partly because he liked to remind himself that kissing Anthony was something he could do whenever he wanted. And partly because there was sunlight coming in through the window that lit up half of Anthony’s face, and because Zacharias was so stupidly infatuated, and so ridiculously happy that he couldn’t help it.

“I take it that’s a, ‘Wow, Anthony, you’re right, I’ll pack it in my suitcase.’”

“Wow, Anthony, you’re right,” Zacharias said, “I’ll pack it in my suitcase.”

He was throwing out more than he was keeping, anyway.

Their two weeks in Ayr went by quickly. On the day they were due to leave for London, Dr. Smith went to the effort of driving them to the station. His car was older than Zacharias, and Anthony had to shout over the sound of the engine to get in a few final questions about wave functions and Hilbert space, whatever that meant. Ravenclaws.

“Phone me when you’re in London,” Dr. Smith said. “Not right away—give it a week or two. Just so I know how you’re settling in. And do go and see your mother.”

“I will,” Zacharias said. “Eventually.”

Dr. Smith almost looked proud. “Both of you,” he said, “have done well for yourselves.”

Zacharias definitely felt it. It had been a long year—he’d gone to Hogwarts for an eighth year, left for a job in the Ministry, had his photo in the Daily Prophet no fewer than three times, and lost his job with the whole wizarding world watching. He’d gone _back_ to Hogwarts, got his Apparition license (which he’d never use, if he could avoid it), passed his N.E.W.T.s, and… there was a letter from Percy Weasley in the pocket of his jeans, with news from the Ministry. He had no way of knowing what would happen next, but that didn’t scare Zacharias. For once, he wasn’t waiting for answers.

The train seemed to fly through the countryside on its way south. Zacharias was preoccupied reading the Guardian, and Anthony drafted a list of questions to ask on his first day of his internship. When Zacharias had read everything except the Muggle sports pages, he turned to the letter. He was nervous, he realised—better to get it over with before it burnt a hole in his pocket.

 

_Dear Zacharias,_

_I know it’s been some time since we last spoke, but I’ve heard from Ron from Hermione that you’re doing well—upon asking, of course. I doubt he would’ve told me unprompted, although I gather you are on significantly better terms than you used to be. Nevertheless, I’m not writing to you for no reason._

_Let’s dispense with the pleasantries quickly. I hear you’re moving back to London. Penny has promised—nay, threatened—to take us both out drinking next weekend. I can’t say I’m looking forward to experiencing one of your famous parties, but we’ll do a trade. It’s almost my birthday, my second since making good with the family, and it’ll be the first proper Weasley party I’ve experienced in a very long time. I fully expect you both to be there._

_Now that’s done, let’s get right to the point: the Ministry. I’ve no doubt you’re keeping up with the Prophet, although I wonder if you’re still reading Witch Weekly. They did an interview with Horner in their most recent issue, to showcase a truly modern working woman—quite the read. I check in on PR occasionally, because I’m still working with Thaddeus on the ICW GA. And given that it is going to be in London after all, we’ve got our hands full. On that note, Fawley has opened up a new position in the department. The ICW fiasco has forced us to have all feet on the ground, and since Thaddeus is most closely involved in that, PR is advertising a temporary position. I strongly suggest that you apply. You have a wealth of experience that will put you ahead of any other candidate. And I do hope you’ve done well in your N.E.W.T.s. That will help too. I say all this… they haven’t posted the advert yet. But just between you and me—and this early copy that Celia asked me to proofread for her—I think you’re a shoe-in. And you never know where a temporary job can lead. Or maybe you, of all people, do._

_See you soon,_

_Percy_

 

Zacharias folded the letter up and held it in front of his face, just in case he was still grinning.

“Good news?” Anthony asked.

“Could be,” Zacharias said. He put the letter back in his pocket. He could deal with the Ministry later.

There was something nice about having someone to see them off, and a welcoming party waiting at the other end. Tracey was on the other side of the ticket barriers, nearly overbalancing under the weight of a singularly overwhelming bouquet of flowers.

“You shouldn’t have,” Zacharias said.

“Piss off,” Tracey said, “these are for Anthony. Congratulations on the job, you fucking overachiever.”

Anthony grinned at her. “Thank you. Honestly. It still seems a little unreal.”

“You’ll blow their minds,” Tracey said.

“What about me?” Zacharias asked. “No housewarming gift? I’m the one who left home, you know.”

“Don’t be so needy,” Tracey said. “Do you want a fucking hug?”

Zacharias shrugged. Tracey leapt at him without warning, spinning them sideways. Zacharias let his arms linger, pulling her off her feet, just a bit.

“So?” he said. “Are you coming over for dinner or not?”

“Can’t,” Tracey said. “I’ve got work.”

She was taking odd jobs for now—plumbing and electricity for Muggles, things that magic could easily fix. The flexibility of it suited her well.

“Fine,” Zacharias said. “Be boring.”

“I think we’ll allow it, just this once.” Anthony gave Zacharias a _look_. Having the night to themselves wouldn’t be all bad.

The three of them walked to the Underground together. They caught up, shouting to be heard over the crowd they had to part. This was it. Zacharias felt more solid with every step he took. This time he had his feet on the ground. The world was waiting for him. Catching the tube again was dizzying, walking was slow, and Zacharias was impatient. When they finally came in sight of Anthony’s flat—their _home_ —at the far end of the street—

—Zacharias broke into a run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having some Feelings ever since I realised this fic was finished. Now that it's _finished_ finished, wow, I am pretty emotional. Some thanks are in order: first and foremost, to my beta reader Taylor, for sticking with this fic since day one and consistently providing me with direction and support. The absolute coolest. To Adela and Jo, respectively over tea and over IMs, for letting me scream incoherently at them until my ideas made sense. And, y'know, for all the enabling. And to everyone who's been reading and commenting! Thank you for making the fic that marked my not-so-grand return to the HP fandom into such a good experience. Not to be, like, clichéd or anything, but... I'll be back...


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